


For Goodness Bakes

by RogueLioness



Series: The DA Alternate Universe Chronicles [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:20:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 65,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26030305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RogueLioness/pseuds/RogueLioness
Summary: Thalia Lavellan has a job she loves, owns her own bakery, and is surrounded by good (if snarky) people who care about her. That's everything, right?So why does the stranger who walks into her store on a rainy night make her want...more?
Relationships: Fen'Harel/Female Lavellan (Dragon Age), Solas/Female Lavellan
Series: The DA Alternate Universe Chronicles [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2036974
Comments: 328
Kudos: 141





	1. Chapter 1

The morning rush is over, the early morning commuters having hurriedly stopped by for a muffin or two to go with their cups of caffeine, all the more needed when the day is as grey and gloomy as it is. Thalia breathes a sigh of relief as she sinks into an empty chair. Nursing her own cup of tea between two hands, she rolls her shoulders in an attempt to release the tension there before she takes a long, deep sip. It’s very gratifying to see the many empty trays in the display shelf. The carrot cake is sold out, and she’s not sure if she should make another one - people tend to prefer the coffee version for an afternoon snack.

“Hey, Min?” she calls out. 

Minaeve, her baking assistant-slash-friend, pokes her head from around the kitchen. “Yeah?”

“Yes or no to more coffee cake?”

The short-haired brunette _hmms_ , takes a look at the display case. “We’re out of muffins, we should make more.”

“I will, I will,” Thalia waves a dismissive hand. “I’m asking about-”

“Sure, why not?” Minaeve grins mischievously. “If there are any leftovers, I’ll be more than happy to take them home with me.”

She shakes her head. “You’re incorrigible, you know that?”

“You know you love me.” Min winks at her, shameless as ever, and returns to whatever she was doing - probably fiddling with her phone and texting Helisma as she usually did.

Thalia sighs as she looks around the small shop, pleased. It’s been less than two years since she first opened the doors to _Dalish Delights_ , and three years since she gave up everything in order to start afresh. It’s been a hard - and expensive - journey, but she’s inordinately grateful she decided to throw caution to the wind and start her own bakery. The hours might be long, and the work exhausting, but she’s happiest when she’s elbow-deep in flour. Plus, the bakery’s been doing well - they’ve built up a steady repertoire of repeat customers, and managed to expand to custom orders, too. At this rate, she should be able to pay Sahren back for the downpayment he’d loaned her.

The bell over the front door chimes. She looks up to see Felassan walking in, and smiles. He’s wearing an honest-to-goodness cloak today, something straight out of a historical archive, but it suits his tall, lanky figure.

“Thalia, _on dhea_!” his violet eyes twinkle when he sees her. “And how are you today?”

“ _On dhea_ , Fel. I’m well enough.” She rises, taking the mug to the sink in the back, and putting it under the running tap, ignoring Min’s sound of outrage. “What can I get you today?”

“I have to go to work today, and, well,” his eyes are scanning the display case. “I’m late. The boss isn’t going to be too pleased, so I’m thinking, a peace offering? Something that will really knock his socks off.” He looks up at her. “Any suggestions?”

“Does he have any preferences? Any allergies?”

“No allergies that I can think of,” Felassan purses his lips thoughtfully. “He’s.. a bit uptight but he’s got a massive sweet tooth.”

“Maybe the coffee cake?”

“No, he doesn’t like coffee-”

“He doesn’t like coffee?” She’s aghast. “How are you friends with that- that _creature_?”

Felassan sighs, long and exaggerated. “It’s a trial sometimes, I won’t lie. But I persevere, because if I’m not around to try and sway him to the caffeine side, who will?”

“You do the work of gods, truly,” she quips drily.

“That’s what I’m best known for.” He straightens. “Tell me you have some coffee left? I’d love a cup with that Orlesian roll you have there.”

“Slept through your alarm again, did you?” she walks over to the small counter that has the coffee machine, and starts to brew him a cup.

“I was up all night reading through some extremely boring reports,” he yawns, pushing his shoulders back in a stretch. “Not my fault the Evanuris are such… long-winded blowhards.”

“That’s certainly one way to talk about your employers,” she quirks a brow. “Milk? Sugar?”

“Oh, come on Thalia, you know how I like my coffee,” he whines.

“Black, like the Blight?” she snarks, sliding over the mug with two sachets of sugar.

“You’re a cruel woman, you know that?” Felassan closes his eyes and inhales the aroma of the coffee. “Mmmmm,” he breathes out. “You should consider hiring a barista, you know. You’d make a killing.”

“It’s a plan for the future,” she admits shyly. “Gotta pay off the down payment first, though.”

He quirks a brow, clearly curious, but thankfully doesn’t ask her any questions. Instead, he changes the subject to the latest gossip from Orlais. “Rumor has it,” he leans in closer, “that Briala - you know Briala, right? Like, my fifth cousin thrice removed, or something. Anyway, I thought that she was close to Empress Celene,” he waggles his brows knowingly, “but apparently she’s been seen quite often of late with a certain _Ser_ Michel De Chevin.”

Thalia sighs patiently. “Fel, you know I have no idea who those people are. And more importantly, why do you think I care about them? They’re rich, and live in their own world and I’m sure all their concerns are trivial and petty.”

“You never know. Someday you may be asked to bake a cake for the Empress of Orlais, and what will you do then if you don’t know if saying yes is a faux pas?” 

“ _Is_ saying yes a faux pas?”

“Are you kidding me? It’s the Empress of Orlais, of course you say yes!” Felassan rolls his eyes.

“What’s up with the Empress of Orlais?” Minaeve joins the conversation, wiping her hands on her apron.

Thalia groans. “Please, no more talk about the Empress of Orlais. Or any royalty for that matter.”

“She’s such a spoilsport.” Minaeve walks around the counter and drags Felassan to a nearby table. “Tell me everything!”

She sighs, and leaves them there, opting to return to the kitchen. She sifts flour, spoons out baking powder, measures vanilla, and soon there are trays of muffins in the oven, filling the air with the scent of caramel and cinnamon. When she goes back out to the front, Felassan’s left - and the tray of Orlesian rolls is empty. She stares at it. “Did- did he actually eat _all_ the rolls?” she picks up the tray, bemused.

“No, of course not,” Minaeve’s busy wiping down the tables. “He had them packed, said he’s going to take them to work. Something about making things up to his boss?”

“Who _is_ his boss, anyway?” she asks, dumping the empty tray into the sink before she makes her way to the oven and pulls out a fresh tray of muffins, setting them on the counter to cool.

“No clue, but it’s probably someone important. I think he mentioned an NDA at some point.”

“That’s probably how he knows so much gossip,” Thalia remarks wryly.

“Probably,” Min snickers.

The late afternoon crowd sports some familiar faces. There’s Varric, who buys his daily large latte with an extra shot of espresso, but he leaves instead of sitting at his usual corner table to write. Iron Bull drops by, ordering his usual mocha frappuccino, as well as a slice of red velvet cake for Dorian. Sera stops by to pick up her weekly order of cinnamon buns for her Red Jenny club, and Thalia briefly wonders if she can pull off plaidweave leggings as well as the blonde, dismissing the idea the next second. 

By the time they’re done, both she and Minaeve are exhausted. They’re mostly sold out; only a few of the day’s offerings are left, several muffins and a couple pieces of the _gateaux_. There’s still time for what’s remaining to sell, but she’s not overly concerned. Any leftovers she’ll pack and set aside for Cole; Creators know that lad could use some meat on his bones.

Thunder rumbles outside, deep and disgruntled. It’s been overcast all day, the heavy, bloated grey clouds hanging threateningly in the sky, and the weather only seems to be getting more threatening.

“Looks like there’s going to be a storm, all right,” Minaeve sighs, wiping down the quaint wooden tables lined up by the large plate-glass window. She stops, damp rag in hand, and peers up at the sky. “Sounds like it’s going to be a big one, too.”

Thalia’s busy staring into the depths of the cold freezer, mentally calculating how much butter she’s going to need for tomorrow. _Thursday is hummingbird and lemon chiffon._ Neither recipe calls for butter, so she takes out what she needs for the daily menu before closing the door of the freezer with a nudge of her foot.

“The one day I forget my umbrella - the Maker sure has a sense of humor,” Min grumbles.

She sets the butter on the granite counter, wipes her hands on her apron. “Why don’t you head on out after you’re done wiping stuff down? It’s going to be a slow night, and I’d rather you not get caught in the rain.”

“Are you sure?” Minaeve asks, a small frown on her face. “There’s quite a bit to prep for tomorrow.”

“I’ve done it before,” she smiles. “I can take care of it.”

Minaeve finishes wiping down the tables and the display cases, washing the empty trays and stacking them up to dry. Thalia’s got the stand mixers running, creaming together the butter and sugar, when Minaeve unties her apron and hangs it up on a hook marked _for laundering_. “Last chance, boss,” Minaeve’s got a hand on the door. 

“Go on, then,” Thalia makes a shooing gesture as she makes her way to the shelf where she’s stored the oil. 

Her friend pulls on a navy jacket, the collar popped up. “Call me if you need help, okay?” 

She nods and waves, waiting for the door to close before she moves over to the radio and turns up the volume a few degrees. She doesn’t mind working alone; it’s not like she has anyone to go home to- 

_Oh, ouch_ . She doesn’t like the path her mind’s going down. _I’m happy the way I am,_ she reminds herself. _I’m doing what I love, and I’m good at it._ Besides, she has friends who care for her, and who insistently drag her out to do things - regardless of whether she wants to or not.

There’s another long, low grumble of thunder, followed by a sharp crack of lightning. It’s pouring outside, as though the floodgates of the Fade have given way. Thalia sighs; she likes storms, but they’re the kind of weather that’s meant to be shared with a lover. Preferably cuddled up on a couch, with a soft blanket and large steaming mugs of something hot. Cocoa, probably. Cocoa, with an absolutely massive dollop of whipped cream.

Oh well.

She busies herself preparing the mixes for the next day, sifting the dry ingredients together, then labelling them carefully with a dry-erase marker. The last time she’d forgotten to label, she’d had to throw out three racks worth of muffins, and she’d nearly wept at the loss.

Everything neatly put away, she decides to indulge herself before tackling the dirty bowls and the myriad spills on the counters. She melts some chocolate chips, adds some heavy cream to it, and a few drops of vanilla, then slowly adds in the warmed milk, using a whisk to mix everything together uniformly. Deciding the weather calls for extra indulgence, she snags a few marshmallows, and tops off the mug, then seats herself by the window, both feet up and tucked under her, and stares outside.

The streets are empty, the rain lashing at the road and the sidewalks. Rivulets of runoff snake their way between the cobblestones, making their way towards the storm drain. The few cars that pass by have their lights and their wipers turned on, the drivers steering cautiously through the deluge.

Thalia doesn’t really expect any more customers for the day, so it comes as a surprise when a sleek, black car pulls up to the curb outside her store. Someone - she can’t quite make out male or female, it’s too dark for that - steps out of the back seat, holding an unremarkable black umbrella out. There’s a few seconds delay before they stand. It looks like a man, judging by the height and the shoulders, but she can’t make out more than that.

To her surprise, the figure makes its way towards her door, and even before he’s opened it she’s already annoyed because his shoes are going to be wet, which means she’s going to have to break out the _wet floor_ signs and the mop. And it’s not what she wants, because what she wants is to be alone in the quiet and enjoy her hot chocolate- she stares at her mug. 

It’s empty.

She huffs in disgust. This is a travesty. Thalia’s half-made up her mind to tell the interloper that she’s closed, when he steps in.

His leather shoes _are_ wet, as she’d expected. They’re also polished so well they reflect the wooden floor. Tailored pants - she can’t name the material, but it looks pricey - highlight long, sinewy legs. Thalia’s always been a sucker for a man in a suit, but this- this is a whole ‘nother level. His grey shirt wonderfully frames broad, strong shoulders, and the tie that’s been beautifully looped into a Lydian knot probably costs as much as her monthly rent.

But that’s not what catches her attention.

It’s his face, with that intelligent, keen gaze, the aristocratic nose, the sharp, elegant jaw, the lush mouth. It’s like he’s stepped right out of her deepest, naughtiest fantasy. For a moment, she can’t do anything but blink dumbly at him - she isn’t quite sure this _isn’t_ a dream.

And then he speaks, and she’s reasonably certain she’s just one syllable away from straight up melting into a puddle.

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

Thalia carefully sets the cup down on the table, runs a hand through her hair. She stands, smoothes out her apron, then clears her throat. “Yes, I- uhh- we’re open.” She makes her way to the front counter. She knows he’s looking at her, and it makes her feel self-conscious.

He approaches the counter once she’s behind it. “Would this be the bakery with the remarkable Orlesian roll?”

_Wait a minute_ . Only one person bought the Orlesian roll, and that was Felassan, and he bought it for- _Creators’ balls_ **_this_ ** _was Fel’s boss?_

“Umm, we- we do make Orlesian rolls?” she stammers. Her tongue suddenly feels three sizes too big for her mouth.

His brows knit together in confusion, and even _that_ makes him look- well, spectacular. Like he’s about to call her a _bad girl_ in that voice of his, all low and smoky, before spanking her silly. Thalia has to physically shake her head to dislodge that train of thought. This is Fel’s boss, for crying out loud! Where’s her bloody sense of decorum? He pulls out a sleek, expensive looking phone and scrolls through it. “This is Dalish Delights, yes?” he asks.

“That’s us- or, well, me.” She points at the wall behind her.

He looks up at the sign hanging there, the one with _Dalish Delights_ written out in a pretty cursive script, and then back at her. His eyes - they’re neither blue nor grey, but a strange amalgamation of both, she notes abstractedly, and absolutely mesmerizing - crinkle up at the corners as he smiles. “Oh, good. I was concerned that Felassan had given me the wrong address.”

“Felassan?” her cheeks hurt from the smile she’s forcing. “Oh, you know him? He’s such a great guy - definitely one of my favorite customers.”

The tall elf tilts his head, and his eyes narrow just the slightest bit as he appraises her. Thalia represses the shiver that threatens to run down her spine at the intensity of his gaze. She clears her throat again. “Was there something you wanted, Mr.-?”

“Solas,” he supplies helpfully. “Just call me Solas.” He reaches out into the space between them, stopping a few inches away from her face. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs huskily. It sets Thalia’s pulse aflutter. “You have something in your hair, may I…?”

“Oh!” she squeaks, feeling her face heat up. Dammit, why does this always happen whenever there’s someone attractive around? “Um. Sure?”

He bridges the gap, gently pulls a strand free from the bun she’s tied her hair into. His eyes never leave hers as he slides his fingers down the strand, careful not to tug at it too hard. (Thalia rather wishes he would.) He picks up a napkin from the dispenser nearby, and wipes his fingers on it. “Some cake batter, I think,” he says with a small smile. 

“Perils of the baking life,” she’s sure her face is going to burst into flame at any moment.

He laughs. It’s soft but sinful, and she wants to coat herself in the sound. “It sounds like a dangerous existence.”

“Only if you forget your mitts when you’re working with the oven,” she shrugs.

He smiles wider, amused. “Somehow I cannot imagine that happening to you.”

“Oh, it has,” she shakes her head ruefully, “more times than I’d care to admit to.”

“And the illusion is broken,” Solas teases.

“Illusion?”

“That someone who looks as graceful as you is not quite so.”

Thalia throws her head back and laughs, wincing internally at the soft snort that escapes her. “Me? Graceful? I believe pigs are more capable of flight than I am of grace.”

He blinks lazily at her. "And yet." The corner of his lips lift up into the smallest of smirks. “As a baker, you work with your hands, do you not? Your measurements are precise and exacting. Those _gateaux_ -” he taps on the glass display, pointing at her black forest and red velvet cakes. “The piping on them is meticulous. Flawless, even. And those sugar roses are pristine. So yes, you are graceful. It is an undebatable fact.” He glances outside. "Alas, I fear it is too dark to tell whether or not any creatures of the porcine variety have, in fact, sprouted wings for takeoff."

She stares at him, not quite sure how to respond to that. She’s sure her ears are red, too, matching the rest of her face. She thinks he’s flirting, but she can’t be sure. What do people do when they’re being flirted with? Should she flirt back? Or play coy? Or ignore him? Finally, she huff's in amusement. "You're a sweet talker, aren't you?"

He chuckles. “I’ve been called many things, but never that.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“It’s true.”

She swallows. He’s so _intent_ when he’s looking at her, so focused. As if everything she says is immensely important. “Then they’re all fools, the lot of them.”

He’s taken aback now, eyes widening just a fraction, surprise and something very close to- to yearning, she thinks, but she can’t be sure - in their depths. “Thank you,” he says at last, sounding rather formal. 

The sudden distance in his tone grounds Thalia, reminds her who she’s dealing with. Solas might be charming, but he is also clearly not in her league, judging by (literally) the cut of his cloth. Not to mention he’s the boss of someone she considers a friend.

“So,” she schools her face into what she hopes is a polite, neutral expression. “Anything look interesting to you?”

He blinks, looking unsure of himself, before his gaze drops down to the display case. “You wouldn’t happen to have any more of those Orlesian rolls, would you?”

“No, I’m sorry,” she apologizes, “we’re sold out. Fel- uhh, Felassan bought all of them in the morning,” she hurriedly adds, “You could place a custom order if you wanted. I can have them ready tomorrow.”

“That’s all right,” he looks over the little stock she has. “I had a sudden urge for something sweet, and thought to visit the bakery Felassan always talks about.” Solas looks around, taking in the decor. “It is every bit as charming as he described it.”

“Thank you,” Thalia replies earnestly. She _has_ spent a great deal of thought on how she wanted to decorate her store. Sap green walls decorated with bright, cheery white and yellow flowers meld wonderfully into the brown wooden floor. There are deep, plush armchairs with low-slung tables by the large window, and smaller wooden tables scattered throughout the (admittedly small) space. Fairy lights hang from the ceiling, giving the overall impression of a hidden glen in the forest, illuminated by fireflies. “I- I’m rather proud of it,” she admits shyly.

“It is something to be proud of,” the look on his face is so soft, and his words are said so genuinely. 

Thalia is once again struck dumb. Fortunately, she doesn’t have to respond. “What do you recommend?” Solas asks, looking back and forth between the coffee cake and the black forest.

“It depends,” she grins, “how bad is your craving?”

“To put it into perspective, I made my way here despite the weather outside.”

Thalia chuckles. “Good point.” She points at the black forest. “You’ll want that.” 

“I’ll take both,” he straightens, a twinkle in his eyes. “I do owe Felassan for stealing his dessert all week.”

She laughs, collects his payment - even his fucking credit card is fancy, a rectangle of matte black metal with the logo of Thedas’ most prominent bank engraved on the corner, and she wonders just how much Solas must have in his account to have been eligible for a card like that. Certainly more than the paltry sum in her account, for sure. More than a little envious, Thalia pulls the trays out of the case, and neatly packages the cake slices. _Oh, what the hell_ , she thinks to herself, adding a chocolate chip muffin in. He _did_ get batter out of her hair, _and_ he praised her store.

“Um-” Solas looks puzzled. “I didn’t pay for-”

“It’s on the house,” she pushes the bag towards him. “Because, you helped me-” she tugs at the strand he’d freed from the bun she usually puts her hair in. “And, well- because you’re cute.” She reddens as she says that, but doesn’t look away from him.

He flushes at that, the pink across his cheeks and nose highlighting the soft freckles on his skin. 

It’s not fair that they make him look even more attractive. _Someone should make him illegal_ , she thinks to herself, half-dazed.

“Thank you.” Solas lingers for a few moments, looking around the bakery, at the display case- everywhere but her, really. He looks like he wants to say something, but changes his mind and walks away. Thalia’s eyes follow him as he exits the shop into the rain, getting into the car that’s been waiting patiently outside - that she’d all but forgotten about. She makes her way to the door, flips the sign from _open_ to _closed_ , and lingers - why, she doesn’t know, but the next moment she does. The tinted window rolls down, and Solas’ eyes meet hers. Their gazes remain locked for several heartbeats, then he smiles, a small one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and gives her a short wave before the window goes back up and the car pulls away from the curb.

She locks the door and dims the lights, making her way slowly back to the kitchen, her mind on that look Solas had given her. Why does a man who is clearly wealthy look so sad?

And, more importantly, why does she care?


	2. Chapter 2

Thalia yawns for what feels like the hundredth time so far. It’s close to opening time, and the air is filled with the scent of warm spices. The lemon chiffon is cooling on the tray, Minaeve trying to speed the process by vigorously fanning it with a sheet pan. She puts the last of the muffins into the display case, yawns again, and gives up, heading straight for the coffee maker.

“Didn’t get much sleep last night, huh?” Min sounds sympathetic.

“Yeah.” Thalia fills the filter with coffee grounds, and puts it back into the machine. A few button presses later, the dark brown brew is filling her mug. She dumps some milk into it, adds an unmeasured amount of sugar, and gives it a quick stir before she takes a large sip.

And spits it out.

“Fuck!” she swears loudly, with some heat, as she stalks her way to the sink and dumps everything in.

“What happened?” Min’s got a mixing bowl in her hand, a concerned look on her face.

Thalia rinses her mouth out with water, making sure to spit into the dustbin. She’s incredibly paranoid about health codes - ServSafe has given her top marks and she intends to keep it that way. Scowling at the now-empty mug, she replies, “I added salt to my coffee.” 

Her scowl only gets deeper when Minaeve starts laughing. “Damn! That’s a first, Lia. What’s gotten into you this morning?”

“I told you, I didn’t sleep well.” It was true, but… also strange. Thalia’s no stranger to sleepless nights - she’d barely gotten two hours sleep during the first month of the store’s opening - but last night was… different. She’d fall asleep, and dream of… She feels her cheeks heat at the memory. Of Sol- no, _Fel’s boss_ , dammit, what was wrong with her- looming over her, her wrists gathered up in that elegant, strong hand of his, his mouth quirked up into the most wicked of smirks, and the way he _moved_ within her-

“-lo, Thalia. Are you even listening to me?”

Thalia clears her throat, and focuses on washing the mug, hoping against hope that Min can’t look at her face.

“Is everything okay?” The concern is back, now, Min’s hand heavy where it lies on her shoulder. Thalia feels a frisson of guilt spear through her. Min is a good friend, she shouldn’t let her worry.

“Yeah… just tired. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Okay.” Min doesn’t look convinced, but lets the matter drop. “How about I make some coffee for you? I’ll even finish frosting the cakes. You should get some rest before the madness starts.”

“Thanks, Min.” Gratefully she flops into the old velvet chair in the kitchen, the store-warming gift from her mother as comfortable as ever. 

“Did you box the leftovers from last night?”

She nods. “They’re in the fridge. I think Cole will be by later today to pick them up, but you’re welcome to some if you want.”

Min hands her a fresh cup of coffee. “Lemme guess,” she remarks wryly, “you snuck in some sandwiches too.”

Thalia gives her a guilty look. “He’s so _skinny_ , Min, and you know he spends that allowance of his on the animals. Least I can do is try and keep his belly filled.”

Her friend’s face is soft and understanding. “You know I’ll never judge you harshly for that, so don’t give me that wounded halla look.” She snags a blueberry muffin from the counter and tosses it to Thalia, who only just catches it. Grabbing a second one for herself, she bites into it, sighing thoughtfully. “Maybe we could work out some agreement with the animal shelter, have a donation cup for them by the register. Maker knows they can always use more help.”

“That’s a great idea! We should absolutely do that. You want to take the lead?”

“Sure. I’ll give Rhys a call later. I hope his mom doesn’t pick up,” she grumbles. “Wynne’s always asking me if I’ve met someone new.”

“You could always give her that script about you being a strong, independent woman who needs no man,” Thalia teases.

“ _I’ve tried_. All she does is agree with me, and… then I feel bad for being rude,” Minaeve ends with a huff.

“She means well, but she can get obnoxious at times” she rinses out her cup, places it on the drying rack. “Besides, everyone knows that she needs a new project now that Rhys is finally with Evangeline,” she grins, wiping her hands on her apron. “Shall we face the masses?”

“I don’t know, _can_ you?” Min sasses. “Can’t have you dumping salt into a customer’s drink, you know.”

“Oh, ha ha. Bite me.”

The morning crowd is more chaotic than usual; it feels as though the entire town slept poorly and are attempting to push themselves to a state of wakefulness through the liberal application of caffeine and sugar. Thalia goes through three trays of muffins, and is down to two slices of the daily specials when Felassan walks in.

 _Walk_ seems a tame word. Fel practically _swaggers_ in, looking very much like a cat having discovered a particularly large dish of cream. Thalia places her palms on the counter, and narrows her eyes as she waits for him to get to her.

“What’ll you have, Fel?”

“How long have I been coming here, Thalia?”

She frowns. Where’s he going with this? “Um. A year, year and a half?”

“A year and a half. I have been _faithfully_ visiting your store for _a year and a half_ , and I have _never_ received a free muffin. But one visit from my boss, and you’re practically throwing all your baked goods at him?” His eyes twinkle mischievously. “Thalia, I’m _wounded_.”

“Hang on,” Thalia groans as Minaeve joins the conversation. “ _Hang on._ Your boss visited our store?” She can feel Min’s eyes on her. “And Lia gave him _a free muffin_.” She winces as Min lets out a loud, high squeal. “Why didn’t you tell me this, Lia! Was that why you didn’t sleep well last night? Were you with him?”

“What? No!” she sputters, eyes wide. “I just- no! He came in, bought some cake,” she clears her throat, “andhelpedmegetcakebatteroutofmyhair,” she mumbles, “so I thought I’d just- besides, those muffins were going to go to waste, so- listen I own this bakery and I don’t have to explain anything to anyone-”

“Ooooh, she’s got it _bad_ ,” Minaeve stage-whispers to Felassan. “She’s never brought up the whole ‘I’m-the-boss’ stuff before. And did you know she put salt into her coffee this morning?”

“Now _that’s_ intriguing,” Fel grins wide.

Thalia covers her face with her hands, and groans. “You guys are the _worst_.”

“Oh? _I’m_ not the one handing out free muffins,” Min has a laugh in her voice.

She sighs, and takes a deep breath before letting her hands fall away. “Look,” she exhales, “he was- nice, and I know he could afford it, but he- he was very complimentary about the bakery, and I- it made me feel good, okay? So I threw in a muffin with his order, it’s no big deal- and if you think it is, Fel, you can have a free muffin too.”

Fel’s eyes soften. “You know we’re just teasing you, _lethallin_. But-” he looks unsure now, uncertain, like there’s something hanging on his tongue. “You are- sweet, Thalia. Gentle. Just- be careful, okay? I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“You think your boss is going to hurt me?” she deadpans, quirking a brow.

Felassan shakes his head. “He’s- a good man, but he has- he has his demons. Just be careful.”

“Sure, Fel. Like the man with the expensive car and the expensive suit is going to want to do anything with a baker. That’s _definitely_ going to happen.”

Fel doesn’t say anything, only looks troubled. She reaches out and covers his hand with her own. “Hey. Look, if it makes you feel better, I’ll be careful, okay? No more free muffins for Fel’s boss.”

He grins at that, a weak one, but a smile nonetheless. “It’s not- he’s not the problem,” he rushes to explain. “The people he works with- some of them- they’re- not the best,” Fel trails off, and sighs. “ _Elgara’naste_ ,” he mutters. “Maybe you might actually be good for him.”

It’s Thalia’s turn to laugh. “Fel, I think you’re seriously jumping the gun here. Your boss walks in here _once_ , and suddenly you’re pairing the two of us together?” She rolls her eyes. “Be realistic.”

“You’re right.” Fel returns to his usual self. “My muffin’s on the house today though, right? You said so.”

She smacks her forehead with her palm. “ _Fine_ . Take your muffin and _go_.”

“I’m not done! I need two slices of those,” he points at the lemon chiffon and hummingbird cakes.

“Two?”

“One for me, one for the boss,” he explains. “And I hope he’ll stick to his share this time,” Fel grumbles. “He keeps stealing my desserts.”

She laughs. “Our cakes are pretty spectacular, I don’t blame him.”

“No restraint,” he sniffs. “He just pounces on them and… ugh. Swallows them whole.”

Thalia’s mind flashes with images of Solas, his eyes bright and feral as he looks up at her, his mouth on her core- whatever she was going to reply goes down the wrong way, and she starts to choke.

Fel inquires solicitously after her, but he’s got a smirk on his face. She flips him the bird, still bent over coughing. Thankfully, he doesn’t stay for much longer, claiming that he needs to get to work before his boss kills him.

The rest of the day goes by in a blur. The closer it gets to closing time, the more Thalia finds herself glancing at the door. It’s ridiculous, and she knows it. It’s not like Solas is going to come, again. Not after Fel’s supplied him with pastries. And really, it’s quite ridiculous to be… _pining_ … like this over someone she met _once_ , and for less than an hour.

It’s absurd, honestly. Absolutely ludicrous. She’s not some lovestruck teen with a crush and hearts in her eyes.

Min’s in the kitchen, prepping the mixes. They’ve got to get all the cheesecakes done by closing time, so they’ll have time to cool overnight. Thalia wipes down the tables, sighing at the sight of all the crumbs on the floor. She takes out the broom, and gets to work, humming softly to the tune playing on the radio. The setting sun catches her attention, and she rests against the broom and stares wistfully out of the window, enjoying the way the deep oranges and purples bleed seamlessly into each other. It makes her think of home in Wycome, growing up with her mother, of evenings spent on the porch while she and Sahren regaled their mother with stories from school. Those were simpler times, quieter times, before their father had barged in with his sneers and his constant-put downs and incessant demands as to how “his” children should behave… Thalia sighs, and resumes sweeping the floor, pushing all the debris to one corner.

She hears the door open, and turns. “Hi, welcome to Dalish-” the rest of the greeting dies on her lips when she sees who it is.

It’s Solas.

He stands hesitantly in the doorway, the light from the blazing sky outside tinting his skin gold. He’s dressed simpler today, in neat cotton slacks and a deep green shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow, showcasing graceful wrists and wiry forearms. It’s not fair that he looks so casually, effortlessly attractive, while she’s stuck in her faded jeans and- she looks down at herself- yep, her apron’s got a bunch of suspiciously brown stains.

Dammit.

She clears her throat, and tries again, ignoring the instinct that wants her to hide away. “Hi… Solas, wasn’t it? What can I get for you today?”

“You appear to be busy,” he murmurs. “I would not want to intrude-”

Thalia rolls her eyes. “Solas, we’re the opposite of busy,” she gestures at the empty tables. “You’re not intruding. Besides, this is a store, so, technically, you can’t really intrude.”

“That’s fair,” he chuckles, moving away from the door. Now that he’s closer, she finally sees the brown paper bag in his hand. _Il Buon Cibo_ , it says beneath a logo of a pasta spiral. She knows the place - it’s one of those uber fancy Nevarran restaurants, the kind that makes really, _really_ good food - with a price tag that she can only justify once, _maybe_ twice a year. Solas has good taste, she thinks to herself, internally drooling and slightly envious of that bag’s contents.

“So, what’ll you have?” she props the broom against the wall, goes behind the counter to wash her hands. “We’re out of muffins, sadly,” she begins, wiping her hands on a small towel, “but there are still cinnamon rolls, and-”

“Actually,” Solas interrupts her with a small smile, “I’m here to-” he raises the bag.

She blinks at him, confused. “You- want to eat here?” she asks, puzzled. “Sure, just grab a table-”

He exhales. It’s a sound of infinite patience. “This is for _you_ , Thalia.”

“Oh.” She stares at him, her head tilted to one side, brows furrowed. “Why?”

“Consider it payment for yesterday's muffin.”

“Solas… that was just a muffin. This is- it’s too much-”

“It’s the least I could do,” he flashes her a disarming smile. “Truly.”

“Lia, I’m done with the crusts-” Minaeve walks out from the back, and freezes when she sees them. Thalia groans internally. She’s never going to hear the end of this, she knows. “Oh. Um, hi?”

She sighs. “Minaeve, this is Solas, Fel’s boss. Solas, this is Minaeve, my friend and assistant.”

“How do you do?” Solas murmurs. “I was just here to drop something off for the two of you.”

“Is that from that Nevarran pastaria?” Min’s eyes gleam. “Their food is to die for. This is very generous of you, Mr. Solas.” Min’s giving her _that_ look, that quirked brow and half-smile coated with insufferable smugness.

“A small repayment for your generosity,” his words are meant for Minaeve, but Solas’ gaze never leaves her.

Thalia sighs again, long and heavy, wishing the earth would swallow her whole. Her face feels too-hot, as do the tips of her ears. She takes the bag from Solas. “Thank you, Solas. You really didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.” 

There’s a moment of incredibly awkward silence in the room. “Soooo… I’m gonna go and, uhh… do stuff…” Minaeve inches backwards towards the kitchen. “Sooo. Yeah.. thanks again, Solas…” with a quick wave, her friend retreats, leaving Thalia alone.

“Well, this is-” she inhales, then exhales. “Awkward.”

To her surprise, Solas laughs. “Indeed.”

She looks up at him. He looks so soft, his hands in his pockets, right foot over the left, his eyes warm with the corners crinkled as he smiles down at her. The question escapes before she can stop it. ‘Do you- are you free? You could, uhh. Join me? If you’re free, that is, I know you’re busy and all, so it’s totally fine if you’re not but if you are-”

“Thalia.” She stops, her cheeks burning, only able to look at him out of the corner of her eyes. “I would- I would like that very much.”

The breath whooshes out of her. Relieved, she grins up at the taller elven man. “Wanna share?”

“Ah, I-” he gives her a sheepish look. “I’d much rather have some of your hummingbird cake, if you have any left? I’ll pay, of course-”

“Nonsense,” she briskly declares. She puts a slice of the cake on a plate, and hands it to him, then removes one of the take-out boxes from the bag. “Shall we?” she moves instinctively towards the dimmest lit corner of the bakery, the one in the nook with the table that shakes ever-so-slightly, the one that Varric favors when he’s people watching and writing his many novels.

“I’m not disturbing you, am I?” Solas looks genuinely concerned.

“No. We hardly get anyone at this time,” she explains, “we usually use the time for clean-up, and prepping for the next day.”

“How many hours do you work in a day?”

“Umm,” she takes a mouthful of the pasta, fighting the urge to moan at how the rich flavors burst across her tongue. The linguini’s cooked to absolute _al dente_ perfection, and the sauce is wonderfully, gorgeously creamy. “We open at seven, so I’m usually in here baking at four-thirty. Prepping doesn’t take quite as long, so I leave by… nine? Ten, if something goes wrong.” She takes another mouthful. “What about you? What do you do?”

“I-” he clears his throat. “Not really I, but the company I, uhh. Work for. We are involved in the preservation of… anything historic. It could be ruins, or artifacts, or even art. I- we obtain such priceless relics, and attempt to restore them to a pristine status through the use of exacting, and precise, techniques.”

“I can understand restoring antiques,” she carefully wipes her mouth, “but how do you restore ruins?”

Solas grins, eyes lighting up. “We’re aware of the different building techniques used in history,” he begins. This is a topic that he’s clearly passionate about. “We take pictures of the ruins, both on ground and via satellite imagery, and we scan the region thoroughly. Historians - those specializing in that period - are brought in to determine the nature of the building. Was it a peasant’s hut? Or a farmhouse? Or was it something bigger, grander? We use the clues that remain to obtain a better understanding of the structure. Objects like pillars, and columns, can tell us a great deal as to how tall the structure was. Even the building material will often indicate if the structure was a single floor, or had multiple levels. Once we have as much data as possible, we bring in builders - specialists who are certified in historical reconstruction - who will use the ancient techniques to rebuild the structure. Oftentimes certain materials that are either dangerous, or no longer available, will have to be substituted, but it usually does not affect the outcome.”

“That’s fascinating,” she breathes, and it is. She doesn’t know many people who are as enthusiastic about what they do as Solas is, and it’s a refreshing change. “So what happens after the building is restored? What do you do with it?”

He flushes. “I, ahh- I only deal with the restoration,” he replies stiffly. “Once it’s done, it’s- it’s out of my hands.”

“Oh.” She lets it drop, because it’s clear he doesn’t want to talk about it. “That’s really interesting. It must be wonderful, getting to see history up so close.”

“It is. I could not imagine doing anything different.” He takes a bite of the cake. “This is extraordinary. Did you always know you wanted to be a baker?”

“Actually, no.” she clears her throat. “It’s a long story, but… I graduated law school. I did well enough that I had a job offer when I graduated, but... “ she shrugs. “When I graduated, I realized my heart wasn’t in it. The thought of having to actually _practice_ law, instead of just studying it…” Thalia shudders. “I moved back home with my mom, worked at a bakery to pay the bills- and the rest, as they say, is history.”

Solas ‘ brows are raised, but his surprise is heavy with admiration. “That is quite the change. Please pardon me if this is rude, but why did you go into law in the first place?”

Her gaze drops to the table. The wood could use some polishing, she acknowledges, making a mental note to do it over the weekend. “I’d rather not talk about it,” she mutters.

“I’m sorry,” he’s genuinely contrite. “I did not mean to overstep my bounds.”

“You’re fine,” she sighs. The sound dissipates in the space between them. “It’s…just messy.”

“Of course.”

There are a few moments of silence- not uncomfortable, but not entirely companionable either, before the conversation restarts. 

“So, your parents - do they live in Skyhold as well?”

She thinks of her mother, blond-haired with crow’s feet and a constant smile, and her lips curve up with fondness. “No, _mamae_ lives in Wycome. She’s a kindergarten teacher, and she loves her job too much to move, even though both Sahren - that’s my brother - and I have asked. I doubt she will, even when she retires. She’s too rooted to the city.”

“And your father?”

Thalia’s unaware of the scowl that falls over her face. “He- he lives in Ostwick, but he travels often to Kirkwall for work.” She clears her throat. “My parents are divorced, if that wasn’t clear.” In an attempt to keep her hands occupied, she begins to shred the napkin in her hands. “What about your parents?”

His face falls. “My parents passed away a few years ago.”

“Creators, Solas, I’m so sorry-” She wants to smack herself in the face.

“You didn’t know,” he gives her a faint smile. “They lived in Arlathan for many years. Father was a professor in the University of Elvhenan. He was well-known, and well-respected, even after he retired. I do not think he would have retired if they had not pushed him to do so,” he shakes his head, a rueful, wistful twist to his lips. “My mother was a translator; she had her own freelance business, but she loved to bake at home. I inherited my sweet tooth from her, I think,” he smiles fondly at the memory. “When _papae_ retired, they moved to a small village on the outskirts of the Arlathan forest. They were happy there. _Papae_ took up gardening, and _mamae_ would bake for all the village children.” He trails off, lost in some remembered memory.

She can tell he’s getting melancholy, so she tries to cheer him up. “What was your favorite dish that your mom made?”

Solas’ lips lift into a wistful smile. “When I was at child - and whenever I would go visit - my mother would bake a chocolate cake. She’d fill it with berries, and it had the most wonderful, lusciously rich chocolate frosting. I would have a slice, and beg for more, but she’d always refuse. And because I was a brat, I would sneak into the kitchen late at night, once I was certain everyone was asleep, for a second slice… and when I opened the fridge, I would always find one waiting neatly on a plate for me, because she knew I was going to do it.” His voice is filled with nostalgia and longing, and he looks so forlorn in that moment, Thalia can’t help but reach out and hold his hand. 

“She sounds wonderful.”

“She was.” He gives his head a little shake, and seems to come back to himself. “What about you?”

They’re interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat. Thalia jerks her hand away from Solas’ feeling her face heat up at being caught. She looks up to find Minaeve standing a few feet away. Min’s taken off her apron; her hands are crossed and she’s got the world’s most shit-eating grin on her face. “I don’t mean to interrupt,” she says in a tone that implies she absolutely means to, “but it’s getting real late, and I’d like to go home?”

Solas reddens, looks at his watch, and practically jumps to his feet. “ _Delavir_ , look at the time!” He turns towards Minaeve. “I apologize for keeping you so late. I- I hope you enjoyed the meal.”

“It was really good, and a lovely treat. Thank you,” she interjects before Min can say anything.

Min’s got her brow quirked, gnawing on her lip as though she desperately wants to say something. Thalia glares at her friend, shaking her head _no_ , smoothing her face when Solas turns back to her.

“I- thank you, for letting me stay past closing time. I know you have work to do-”

“It’s- I had fun,” she blurts out.

He smiles again, that shy, surprised, disbelieving smile that has her wanting to wrap her arms around him and tell him how precious he is. “So did I.”

“Here,” Minaeve shoves a box at him as Solas walks past her. “Some cinnamon rolls. For, you know. Dessert.”

 _I’d rather have him for dessert_ , Thalia thinks, then starts at the thought. Where had that come from?

“You’re too kind,” Solas murmurs. He stops at the doorway, gives Thalia a smile and a nod, and walks out into the night.

“You have the hots for Fel’s boss, don’t you?” Min states without preamble the moment the door’s closed.

Thalia lets her face fall into her hands. “Oh, fuck, I _do_ ,” she groans.


	3. Chapter 3

The phone’s cradled between her ear and her shoulder. “Don’t forget, I need those by six,” Dorian sounds harried.

“Two dozen honey soaked cardamom cupcakes with fresh plum compote,” Thalia recites from memory. “I’m well aware, Dorian. You’ve been telling me this every day for the past two weeks, remember?”

He sighs. “I know, I’m sorry. I’m just so stressed. This evening  _ needs _ to go without a hitch.”

“What’s the party for, anyway?”

“A client’s birthday.”

“You’re having a party for a client? Wait, was this the high-society affair thing you were talking about, then?”

“You’re still invited, you know.”

“Thanks, but I think I’ll pass. You know how I feel about those. Besides, I don’t think any of them would be interested in hearing what a baker has to say,” she tries to joke, but it comes out flat.

Dorian’s silent for several moments. “Not everyone’s like your father, you know.” His voice is soft, but there’s just the slightest amount of disappointment in it, and it makes her feel like an absolute heel.

“I know,” she exhales. “I just-” she runs a hand through her hair. “I can’t help it, Dorian.”

“You’re not  _ ‘just a baker’ _ , Thalia. You’re an entrepreneur, you own - and run! - your own bakery. You’re smart, and creative, and anyone who doesn’t see that is blinder than the dead. Your father is, frankly, an ignorant buffoon with the mind of a dessicated prune, and I hate that you let him get to you. You’ve got to get him out of that wonderful head of yours sometime,” he sighs again. “But- I understand.”

She recognizes the undertone to the sigh. “Is Halward giving you trouble again?”

“Just the usual kind.  _ How can a son of mine be attracted to men, how can a son of mine betray his country by shacking up with a qunari _ , blah, blah, blah. I drifted off after the third insult.” Thalia knows him well enough to hear the hurt in his voice, and she silently seethes at the casual cruelty of his parents. Parents who, in her opinion, absolutely do not deserve a son as brilliant and caring and wonderful as Dorian is.

“He conveniently ignores all the good that you do,” she mutters. “I have a mind to call and yell at him-”

“Don’t. You’ll just be wasting your energy, I’m afraid.”

Thalia sighs, leans against a wall. “I guess we both have daddy issues, don’t we?”

“I will give you a thousand sovereigns if you never use the phrase  _ daddy issues _ ever again.”

“Deal,” she laughs.

“About the cupcakes-”

“ _ Dorian _ . They will be there,  _ on time _ , I promise.”

“Are you going to make anything for yourself? Given that it’s your birthday tomorrow, and all.”

“Oh, yes,” she smiles dreamily into the air. “I’ve had the idea for a while, now. A two-tiered hazelnut almond cake filled with dark chocolate ganache and a raspberry compote, and covered in mocha buttercream. It should be  _ heavenly _ .”

“A two-tiered cake? For yourself? Isn’t that rather indulgent?”

“That’s the point,” she rolls her eyes. “But I’m not going to be eating the whole thing by myself. It’s for the party, you know, the one I told you about like, a month ago? I said I’d make the cake, Varric was going to handle the food? Have you forgotten, Dorian? You said you’d be there!”

“I do not  _ forget _ ,” he clears his throat, “it may have… slipped… my mind, for a moment.”

“So you’ll be there? With Bull?”

“Of course,” he says warmly. 

“You better be,” she mutters. “Honestly, Dorian. I can’t believe you forgot. Is this birthday thing that big a deal?”

“It is, unfortunately. You’ve heard of the Evanuris group, I presume?”

“Who hasn’t?”

“My firm has recently signed a contract with them. The party is for Mythal - we’re only dealing with her for the moment, but-”

“You’re hoping to get into their good graces so they’ll give you more work?” she guesses correctly.

“If I pull this off, it could double the work we get from them.”

“You’ll get it, Dorian,” she jots down,  _ make sure cupcakes are impeccably decorated, it’s for Mythal! _ on the notepad.

“Keep your fingers crossed, will you,” he exhales. “And don’t forget to-”

“Dorian Pavus, if you tell me to be punctual one more time, I will turn up and dump all the cupcakes over your head!”

“Well,  _ someone’s _ grumpy. You should do something about that, my dear.”

She glares at the handset several seconds after he hangs up.

“Lemme guess, that was Dorian on the phone asking about the cupcakes?” Min breezes past her, a tray of muffins in hand.

“None other.”

“Yeah, he called like, five times yesterday when you were out at lunch.” With a neat, practiced motion, Minaeve slides the tray into the display case. “Only stopped when I threatened to block his number.”

“He’s having a party for one of the Evanuris,” Thalia explains, tying the apron around her waist.

Min’s brows rise up, nearly disappearing into her hairline. “Why?”

She exhales in a huff, directing a bland look at her friend. “Min, c’mon. I know you don’t like the Evanuris, but Dorian takes his job seriously, okay?”

Min raises her hands in surrender. “All I’m saying is, he can find better people to work for. And with that, I’m done.” At Thalia’s skeptical look, she adds, “I promise. No more.”

“Good. ‘Cause I need you to get started on the plum compote.”

She carefully swirls icing on the last cupcake, tongue poking out between her teeth, her eyes scrunched up as she pulls away the bag to create a thin, elegant peak on the very top. With utmost caution, she picks up the tray and slides it into the freezer, where it will set for a few hours before she packs them up for delivery.

With Dorian’s order done - and looking absolutely delectable, if she does say so herself - Thalia makes a mental note to take some pictures for the store’s website before she takes them over.

“You know,” Min’s voice is muffled as she talks through a mouthful of cupcake, “it’s a miracle that I haven’t gained, like, two hundred pounds since I started working here, given how much I eat.”

“You do look a little bloated around the hips,” she teases, ducking to avoid the cupcake wrapper Min chucks at her. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding!”

“These might be your best yet,” Min casts a regretful look at the pastries in the cooler. “It’s a good thing you’re getting them out of here today, or there’s no telling what I would’ve done to them.”

“Anything happens to them, I  _ will _ murder you slowly and painfully, I swear.”

Her friend rolls her eyes. “I won’t touch them.”

“C’mon, help me with this one, will you?” Thalia places one of the hazelnut almond cakes on the cake stand, and slowly slices it horizontally into two, making sure they’re equal. Minaeve then takes over and coats the two halves with the dark chocolate ganache, before filling the lower layer with a thick, indulgent layer of the raspberry compote. Soon, the first level is assembled, and she turns her attention to the second tier. She’s working alone now, the lunch crowd is just starting to pick up and Min’s busy at the counter packing cinnamon rolls and coffee cakes for those with a sweet tooth.

Thalia carefully inserts the dowels into the first tier, uses a level to make sure it’s even, then carefully places the second tier on top. She holds her breath as she steps away, her eyes never leaving the structure; she exhales in a rush when nothing topples over or flattens. The crumb coating is easy enough to apply with the palette knife, and she hums quietly to herself as the cake stand whirls merrily around. The mocha buttercream is applied in large rosettes all along the sides of the first layer, and in tiny stars along the second, and she sticks the shards of candied almonds on the top. When the last one is securely pressed into the cake, she steps back, using the back of her hand to brush away a stray strand from her face, and admires her work. It looks beautiful and elegant, and she can’t wait to show it off to all her friends tomorrow.

And to taste it, of course.

“Damn,” Min whistles when she walks into the kitchen. “That’s one hell of a cake. Happy birthday to me!”

“Not till tomorrow,” she swats away Min’s hand when she tries to stick a finger into the bowl that has the excess buttercream.

“Aww come on, lemme just taste the icing!”

“No spoilers till tomorrow!” Thalia picks up the finished cake and breezes out of the room, carefully placing it in the fridge.

It calls for a celebratory cup of tea, and she’s sitting in a chair behind the counter with a misshapen mug - the result of an impromptu pottery workshop she’d taken a year ago, just for fun - filled with Llomerynn breakfast tea. The store’s mostly empty - there’s a tall, lanky man by the window hunched over a laptop and intensely typing away. Krem’s there too, tucked away in that cozy nook, a wide, goofy grin on his face as he nods along to whatever Maryden’s telling him. The sight of the couple, lost in their own world, makes her sigh wistfully. She curls her fingers around the cup and watches them for several moments, head tilted to one side, lips quirked up in a small, yearning half-smile. 

The bell over the door chimes, knocking Thalia out of her reverie. Solas walks in. His face is calm, but she can tell he’s harried by the way his eyes dart around. When they land on her, he rushes over to the counter, and she goes to meet him, curious as to what’s got him so flustered.

“Hi?” It comes out more a question than a greeting.

“Hello.” He takes in a deep breath, then exhales just as heavily. “I- I have an issue I hope you can help with.”

“Oh?”

“It’s- a close friend of mine is having a party, and I promised to bring something for dessert. I was just informed that my order was canceled-”

“Did you order from Cookie’s Cakery? I heard they were shut down after a nasty bout of food poisoning.” She won’t say it out loud, but she’s more than a little hurt that he didn’t think of coming to her with the order. She thought they were friends, but apparently not.

“Yes.” He flushes, and his gaze drops to the countertop. “A sufficient punishment, I’m sure, for not approaching you.”

“No, no,” she murmurs, but she’s thinking  _ you’re absolutely right it’s punishment _ .

“In any case, I thought I could try my luck. Would you have anything prepared? Any kind of cake, I’m in no position to be picky.”

Thalia hesitates. She  _ does _ have something prepared, but- it’s for  _ her _ birthday. It’s special. She’s spent so much time on it. “I don’t know,” she murmurs.

Solas deflates. His shoulders visibly sink, and he shuts his eyes for a long moment before reopening them and flashing her a wan smile. “That is understandable. It was a last-ditch attempt, anyway. I will shoulder the blame.” She sees him square his shoulders, his posture stiffening as though he’s readying himself for a fight. He’s breathing slowly, inhale, pause, exhale, a mechanism she recognizes as one that helps cope with stress. Hesitation gives way to concern. Why would something as small as this be such a big deal?

“It’s not your fault, though,” she protests.

His smile turns a small bit warmer. “That may be so, but the- some of my colleagues will not see it that way. They are not all that fond of me, and- well.” He reaches out and covers her hand with his. “It’s fine, truly. Do not unnecessarily concern yourself with this.”

“I might have something,” she bursts out.

His expression turns to one of confusion. “I thought you said-”

“Slipped my mind for a second,” she tamps down the pang of regret that’s starting to bubble in her stomach. Part of her doesn’t want to give up something she’s worked so hard on, something that she’s made as a treat to herself… but she doesn’t want to see Solas so stressed, and if the cake will make him feel better, well, then her effort won’t have gone to waste. She makes her way to the freezer, ignoring Min’s raised brows and her silently mouthed  _ what the living hell are you doing _ . What was to be her cake has, mercifully, set, and the caramel shards gleam in the sunlight as she brings it to the counter. “I made this for- well, it doesn’t matter, but I can always make a second one.”

“Are you sure?” Solas is fixated on the cake, clearly mesmerized. “I would not want to cause you any undue hardship-”

“You won’t,” she smiles, the emotion behind it sincere. “Trust me. If anyone asks,” she gives him a brief description, as well as any relevant allergy warnings.

“You’ve clearly put in a great deal of effort into this Thalia, I cannot take advantage-”

“You’re not taking advantage, I promise. You still have to pay for it, y’know.”

Solas gives out a soft laugh. The sound gathers in her chest and warms her insides, turning her smile several degrees brighter. “But of course. How much do I owe you?”

Thalia does a quick mental calculation, adding together the price of ingredients, a decent compensation for her time and effort, and- screw it, he’s taking her birthday gift, he can pay for it. She names a price that makes the tips of her ears burn - now  _ she’s _ the one taking advantage of him - but to her surprise, he doesn’t bat an eyelid, instead taking that sleek black card from his wallet and running it across the scanner. Her eyes widen when she sees him add a sizeable tip. “You don’t have to do that,” she objects.

“It’s more than well-deserved, believe me. You’ve saved me no small amount of embarrassment, after all,” his eyes crinkle at the corners.

She blushes under his warm admiration, the color of her cheeks soon matching that of her ears, something that Solas clearly notices because his smile turns so wide she can see his adorable dimple. “There you go,” she slides the neatly packaged box towards him. “Make sure you keep it steady in the car, or else it’ll topple over and the icing will get smushed.”

“I will guard it with my life,” his tone is solemn, though his lips are quirked with mischief.

She rolls her eyes. Before she can say anything else, Min pops up by her side. “Sorry to interrupt your flirtation session, but you need to start getting that order out, boss.”

“Min!” she hisses, her flush turning deeper. She can’t quite look at Solas, but she peeks at him from the corner of his eye and it’s gratifying to see that he’s also turned that becoming shade of pink. 

He clears his throat. “I should be going. Thank you, truly.”

“Happy to help,” she mumbles, still unable to look directly at him.

When she hears the door shut, she turns to Min. “What was that for?” Thalia exclaims. 

“You’re asking me? I’m not the one who gave away something I made for myself!”

“Yeah, but that was my choice, and I got paid for it!” she shoves the receipt at Min. “Did you really have to embarrass me like that?”

Min sighs. “Lia, what are you doing? I know you’re attracted to Fel’s boss, but come on. Do you really think giving that cake up is going to get him to notice you? Aren’t you the one who’s always going on about how he’s in a different league?”

“I had my reasons for that, okay?”

“I get that. I just… you know you’re doing the same thing you did with your dad, right? Giving up things you like for someone else? Inconveniencing yourself, sacrificing your stuff? Sound familiar?”

Thalia’s shoulders drop as she lets her breath out slowly. “This isn’t the same, Min. I- he was in a bind, and- we’re friends. I was just helping out. That’s all.” She waves the receipt again, a small grin on her face. “Besides, with what he paid for that cake, I can  _ really _ treat myself.”

Min shakes her head, the dubious, unconvinced look still on her face. “If you say so. I just… you’ve come such a long way, Lia. I don’t want to see you get hurt again.”

“I’m fine. Really.” She unties her apron, drops it unceremoniously in the laundry basket. “Now, c’mon, help me get the cupcakes to the car. Dorian will absolutely throttle me if I don’t get these to him on time.”

Minaeve’s warning rings in her head during the entire drive to Dorian’s mansion. Is she really depriving herself for Solas’ sake? Yes, she did give up what was supposed to be her cake, but he did look like he needed it more. Besides, each time she’s tried to be nice to him, he’s been, well, even nicer back, really. If anything, it feels quite often as though she’s taking advantage of him. She shakes her head. No, she’s fine. She did something nice is all, and there’s no harm in that.

Dorian’s waiting for her by the side door, just as he promised. There are quite a few people milling around already, mostly the caterers and servers. “Oh, thank goodness, you’re on time,” he calls over a server and has them help her unload the trays. “One of the guests turned up earlier than expected and I don’t know how I’m going to keep him entertained when there’s still so much to do.”

“Who? Not the guest of honor, I hope.”

“I don’t know if it’s better or worse, but it’s not Mythal. It’s Fen’harel.”

“The Dread Wolf? Isn’t he practically a recluse? Why did he suddenly turn up? Was he even invited?”

“Of course he was invited! I can’t invite the Evanuris and not invite him, can I? He turned up with dessert, he said, a rather decadent looking concoction. Looked quite like the one you mentioned you were planning to make for your party, actually.”

Thalia’s stomach churns with apprehension. It can’t be. It- it’s not possible, is it? Clearing her throat, she forces the frown away. “This Fen’harel... is he about six foot four, clean-shaven head? Blue-silver eyes, broad shouldered, a jaw that could cut glass?”

Dorian’s brows knit together. His lips twist sideways. “That’s him. You’ve met him?”

She pinches the bridge of her nose, runs a hand down her face. Fucking hell. Fel’s boss-  _ Solas _ \- is actually Fen’harel. Thalia knows all about the Dread Wolf. He’s the newest member of the Evanuris, and already the most contentious. His push for safer conditions and better pay for the employees in the Evanuris conglomerate had been successful, but several of the other members had resented it and it had resulted in many workers being pushed from full-time to part-time positions, losing them both wages and benefits. His popularity had taken a deep dive, and so had the number of public appearances he’d made. She shakes her head, mentally berating herself.  _ Creators _ . All this time, she’s thought of him out of her league, but she hadn’t known just far. And she’d  _ flirted _ with him! She’s flirted so brazenly with him, and not once had he told her the truth of who he really was. How could he- was he laughing at her the whole time? Did he find it amusing that she, but a humble baker, was flirting so openly, with him? That asshole. He should’ve told her. “Creators damn it all. I sold him my cake. Fucking hell,” she scoffs. 

“Wait, that was your birthday cake? Why would you do that and deprive yourself of something so absolutely delectable?”

She shuffles awkwardly from one foot to another, thoroughly embarrassed, her gaze fixed on the floor. How the hell can she explain it to Dorian? How does she tell him that the poor man -  _ poor man indeed, _ she scoffs to herself now - looked so stressed and so tense that she’d wanted to take his troubles away? Now that she knows who he is, it sounds so silly. He’s fucking  _ Fen’harel _ . What kind of troubles could he possibly have? “He looked like he needed it more.” she mutters. Why hadn’t he told her who he was? He’d been so sweet, so easy to talk to- Her cheeks flush deeper, anger uncoiling in her stomach. How dare he deceive her! Did he think it was funny? Was she some kind of joke to him? 

“ _ He needed it more? _ ” Dorian echoes, both his brows raised high, his tone incredulous. “Thalia, my dear, you know the man’s a millionaire, yes? He could’ve easily procured dessert from a hundred other sources. You didn’t have to give up your special treat for his sake!”

“I didn’t know who he was, okay? Besides,” she adds in a small voice, “he paid me really well for it.”

“Pffft. A paltry sum, no doubt. You could have charged him ten times as much, and it would still not concern him.”

“I’m not a cheat, Dorian. I’m just- ugh. All this time, and he never told me who he was! I’m so embarrassed,” she drops her face into her hands and groans. “I knew him as Felassan’s boss, and he told me his name was Solas… I can’t believe he’s Fen’harel! Oh, Creators, I should have guessed when he brought me and Min dinner that time-” she groans again, even more shame washing over her.

Dorian rubs her back. “There, there. He must have had his reasons for doing so, no doubt. Listen, I would love to stay with you and give you the attention you deserve, but-”

“It’s okay, Dorian, I know you’re busy. We can talk later.”

“You can tell me everything tomorrow, during your party. Happy early birthday!” He presses a kiss to the top of her head, gives her a rushed hug, and returns to the chaos.

Thalia can’t shake the feeling of wanting to crawl into a dark hole and hide forever. She can’t stop thinking about Solas. What does he think of her? Did he just think she was flirting with him because he had money? She didn’t even know who he was! Was that why he was so reluctant to accept any kindness from her? Because he thought she’d try and take advantage? Minaeve’s of no help either; she won’t stop giggling over the fact that Thalia tried to hit on Fen’harel.

One thing’s for sure. She’s not going to have anything to do with Solas ever again. 


	4. Chapter 4

Her dreams are fitful. She’s in a great hall, large, opulent tables overflowing with all kinds of decadent pastries, but she can see they’re embedded with shards of razored glass. Laughter, high and mocking, assails her from all sides. At the very end of the hall, looming over her, is a black and red throne, ornate and gigantic, and sitting on it is Solas, straight-backed and imperious, resting one ankle on a knee. He leans forward, his elbows on his thighs, one hand cupping his chin, and beckons her with a crook of his fingers, eyes half-lidded, a wicked smirk on his lips. Entranced, she finds herself moving towards him, an ensorcelled moth to the brightest flame, and she stands before him, unable to look away as he reaches out and draws his thumb over her lips- Thalia startles awake, disoriented, uncomfortably turned on, and no matter how much she tries thereafter she just tosses and turns on the bed, unable to get any rest.

When she stumbles into the bakery the next morning, her eyes are barely half-open, and she keeps yawning every few seconds.

“Happy birthday!” Minaeve hugs her, but Thalia’s too tired to even return the embrace. “You look like shit, by the way.”

“I know.” She yawns again, desperately fighting the exhaustion that looms over her. “After the whole Fen’harel fiasco I was too embarrassed to get any sleep.”

“Oh, come on. You think you’re the first person to hit on him? People hit on Fen’harel all the time. How many times have you seen those tabloid reports? You just hit on him without knowing who he really was. It’s no big deal, I bet he’s used to it.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t want him to think that I’m like all the other opportunists out there who throw themselves at him. Besides,” she groans, “it’s embarrassing, you know? He was probably laughing at me the whole time. Probably thought it was hilarious some two-bit nobody was flirting with him via free muffins.”

“Okay, the muffin part _was_ hilarious, but also kinda sweet, so if he laughed at you for that then he’s a dick. Besides, you know you’re not an opportunist, so what does it matter if he thinks you are? It’s not like you were trying to date him, or anything, right?”

Thalia doesn’t have a response to that - certainly not the one she can’t quite bring herself to confess, even to herself - so she gets herself some coffee. Min’s putting trays into the display case and getting ready for the opening, so she takes a seat by the window instead and tries to relax. It’s a small mercy that they’ll close early today, because there’s no way she’s going to be able to work a full day. She nestles the cup between both hands, and stares outside. The sky reminds her of the cornflowers that sprung up in her mother’s garden. Despite being weeds Thalia loved them, and though Gallea Lavellan did not like weeds in her well-kept garden, she’d always made an exception for cornflowers. For her sake. 

She’s unaware of the wistful smile on her face as she sips on her coffee (with _three_ extra shots of espresso, she needs it) and watches the clouds slowly tumble by. At this hour, the only people outside are store-owners getting ready to open, and the joggers with their neon-colored sneakers and headphones covering their ears. She recognizes Bull, who’s shirtless - as he apparently always is - and when he spots her, he raises a hand in greeting. She gives him a cheery wave before he keeps moving.

A somewhat familiar-looking black car slinks up the road. Thalia squints as she tries to make out the model - it can’t be, can it? Surely _he’s_ not thinking of making an appearance at her bakery, on her birthday, after he’d cheated her of her cake? It gets closer, and she’s dismayed and annoyed to see that yes, it looks very much like _his_ car, and she’s halfway out of her seat to give him a piece of her mind when she realizes that they’re still closed, and he can’t come in.

Good. She doesn’t want to see him.

The car pulls up to a smooth stop outside her doors. Thalia’s eyes widen, then narrow. She watches through slitted eyes as _he_ gets out of the car, a neatly-wrapped parcel in his hands. She hopes he doesn’t see her, but of course, _of course_ he does. He gives her a small, sheepish smile through the plate-glass window. She’s tempted to ignore him, tempted to leave him standing outside where everyone can see him so everyone will recognize him as _Fen’harel_ and not _Solas_ , but… she throws her head back and groans. She can’t do it. She isn’t capable of being that petty.

More importantly, she wants to yell at him for lying to her.

She lets him in, glancing around outside to see if anyone had seen his entry. Satisfied that the coast is clear, she turns her attention back to him. “What are you doing here?” she hisses. “I know who you really are, by the way. Dorian told me - you know, Dorian Pavus? You went to his party yesterday, taking _my cake_? All this time, you’ve just- I’ve been calling you Solas, and, and- just how much did you laugh at me? I hope my ignorance was amusing, because it’s not going to happen again!”

“I’m sorry,” his face is downcast. She can see the remorse in his eyes, the plea on his lips. “It was not my intention to deceive you-”

“You’re Fen’harel! And you called yourself Solas! I’d call that _deceiving_!”

“I wasn’t lying,” he’s quiet, and his gaze flickers between her face and the door to the kitchen where Minaeve is. “Maybe by omission,” he concedes when he sees her raised brow. “But not deliberately. I was Solas first. I took up the mantle of Fen’harel when I joined the Evanuris. I- I’m sorry I did not tell you the truth earlier. People tend to treat me differently when they learn who I am, and, well-” He angles his shoulders away from her, just the slightest bit. “I enjoyed your openness, and your frank honesty. You had no guile, no hidden motives for wanting to converse with me, and I- I found that refreshing. I did not want to give it up, but- it was wrong of me, I know now.”

_Dammit._ She can’t be mad at him, not when he’s just confessed so sincerely. “Oh, sit down, will you, and stop giving me those mabari-pup eyes,” she grumbles, dragging him to a nearby table. “Look, I’ll be honest with you. What you did made me feel embarrassed, and even more so because… frankly, I don’t quite know how to behave around, well, fancy people. Dorian’s an exception, and only because we were roommates in law school, and let me tell you it still took me the better part of a year to ease up around him. I like you, though, and I like talking to you, too. As far as Fen’harel is concerned… well, I think it’s a shame you’re blamed for all those people losing their jobs, because it wasn’t your fault. I’m not going to hold that against you. If you can keep from putting on airs, if you can promise me that you’re going to stay as- as, well, _Solas_ ,” she gesticulates in a _you-know-what-I-mean_ fashion, “I can keep treating you just the way I treat everyone else.”

He smiles. It feels like another sunrise. She can’t keep the color from creeping up her cheeks. “I think I can do that.”

Thalia exhales. “Good. Though I reserve the right to boot you out of the bakery if you act out.”

“You may absolutely throw me out onto the street if I behave deplorably,” he says solemnly, his eyes twinkling with suppressed laughter.

“So.” Now that the initial burst of- whatever _that_ was- is out of her, she finds herself out of things to say. What does one even say to someone who’s dressed in a three-thousand sovereign suit before the sun’s even fully up in the sky? What is he even doing here, with her? She’s not really exciting company, hell, she barely knows what to talk about- “Would you like something?” she blurts out.

“Do you have anything ready?” he stares doubtfully at the empty shelves in the display case. 

Thalia’s cheeks turn bright pink. “We do,” she stumbles over her words in her attempt to reassure him. “We just haven’t put it out yet. Today’s specials are hazelnut mocha dacquoise, and chocolate dacquoise. Aside from the usual stuff, of course.”

Solas _hmms_ , a finger tapping his lips. The gesture draws Thalia’s attention to his mouth, and she finds herself staring at the full lower lip, the elegant, bow-shaped upper lip, the perfect line they make at the seam. She wonders if they’d feel as soft as they look. Would his addiction to cake have given them a permanent sweetness?

Maybe if she asked for a birthday kiss… she takes a tiny step back at the thought. _What the- where did that come from_ ? She’s so lost in chastising her errant, traitorous mind she doesn’t hear him the first time he makes his choice. “I’m sorry, what was that again?” Her face feels so hot, and judging by the smirk on Solas’ face he probably knows what she’s been thinking. _Fuck_.

“I wondered if it would be possible to get a slice of each packed? Even I cannot justify cake this early in the day,” he grins.

“Sure, of course.” She makes her way to the fridge and boxes up his order. Throwing caution to the wind, she adds an extra blueberry muffin. It’s her birthday. She’s allowed to be generous if she wants. Getting behind the counter, she rings him up. He types in a ridiculous number as a tip. 

She swats his hand. “See, that right there? That’s a no-no.”

“I’m not allowed to leave you a tip?” he sounds as bewildered as he looks.

“If you want, sure, but be reasonable about it! Your tip is ten times what you’re paying for the order, and I- it makes me feel weird, okay?”

He deletes a zero, and she nods in approval. “That’s better.” Shaking his head, his lips quirked into a half-smile, he slides his card into the reader.

“Let me know what you think of them,” she says.

“Even if I do not enjoy them?”

“Oh, ha ha. Fat chance of that happening. I’ve won awards for that recipe, I’ll have you know.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah. Oh, and speaking of opinions,” she feels herself blushing, but she desperately wants to know. “Did you, umm. Did you get a chance to try that cake yesterday? You know the one.”

“Oh.” It’s his turn to flush. The color brings out his freckles. Thalia grips the edge of the counter to keep herself from leaning in and counting them. “I did,” his attention is back on the small, prettily wrapped box in his hands. “It was… I am absolutely certain that it was, without a doubt, the most decadent cake I’ve ever had the pleasure to consume.”

“That- that’s good.” There’s a pang of regret in her chest. She’d have liked to try it. “I’m glad.”

“I- I have a confession to make,” at her flat look, he hastily amends, “ _another_ confession.”. Solas gingerly places the bow-wrapped box in front of her. “I- I may have overheard your conversation with Ser Pavus yesterday-”

“You were eavesdropping?” Thalia’s aghast. The tips of her ears start to burn. _Creators,_ had he heard Dorian suggesting she overcharge him? “Look, Dorian’s a bit- he’s not a cheat, or anything, he was just mad that I’d given away the cake-”

“I know.” His eyes crinkle up at the corners. “However, it was my fault that you had to give up something meant for your birthday, and, well-” he pushes the box an inch closer towards her. “I would have bought you a cake, but I couldn’t think of anyone who bakes as well as you. So… consider this my apology. And, well… happy birthday.”

She stares at him, slack-jawed. It takes her several moments to get her mind working again. “You didn’t have to, Solas. And it wasn’t your fault - it was my decision to make, and you did pay for it. It wouldn’t be right- I can’t accept this.”

“You don’t have to, but it would make me happy if you did.”

“That’s not playing fair,” she mutters. “Solas, you don’t have to- to buy my attention. I like you just fine. If this is some kind of bribe-”

He holds his hands up in surrender. “It is not. You are a friend, and so I merely wanted to give you a birthday gift. That’s all.”

“Well.” Thalia reaches out and slowly pulls it towards her. “This is… very sweet of you. Thank you.” Glancing up at him, her heart gives a little _blip_ at the open affection on his face. One palm rests on the granite counter, his long, elegant fingers splayed out. The other’s tucked into a pocket. His shoulders are relaxed, and there’s no tension around his mouth. Heart racing, she tugs and unravels the bow, before slowly and carefully removing the wrapping paper.

“You don’t have to be so cautious, you know. It’s just wrapping paper.” his words are laced with amusement.

“It’s pretty. I want to save it.” It really is pretty. Shades of blue, black and gold swirl together in an elegant marbled pattern. There are so many ways she can reuse it.

“Please don’t tell me you’re one of those people who likes to hoard wrapping paper?”

Indignant, she puts her hands on her hips, the unwrapping temporarily forgotten. “I am not. And even if I was, what’s the harm in it? You can’t just judge them so quickly. I- I collect wrapping paper, ‘cause I believe in upcycling. You can do a lot of cool things with-”

“I was only joking, Thalia,” he soothes, a strange smile on his face. “I meant no offense.”

“Good.” Grumbling, she returns to her task, and she gently removes the last piece of tape to see what’s within.

It’s a book.

And not just any book. It’s a heavy, leather-bound book, with the title - _The Tale of Iloren_ \- written in gilded calligraphy. It’s clearly old, and beautifully preserved, and- her fingers tremble just the slightest as she carefully, reverentially, opens the flap. Her breath hitches, a gasp slipping from her lips. It’s a first edition.

“How- how did you-?” she can’t find the words right now. She’s touching, actually touching, a piece of Dalish history, one that’s been meticulously taken care of. Her fingers stroke the yellowed parchment with awe. “It’s beautiful,” she sighs out in pleasure.

“Felassan said you had an interest in Dalish history. Do you like it?”

It’s an effort to drag her eyes from the book, and to his face. “Like it?” she squeaks. “That has to be the understatement of the- well, _century,_ I’d say. I love it! It’s… I'd say it's magnificent, but that's too tame a description. _Creators_ ," she exhales, still unable to believe what she's holding in her hands. "I’ve always dreamt of owning a first edition someday, but…” her stomach sinks. She knows how rare and expensive they are. “Solas, I- I can’t accept this.”

“It’s your gift,” he says easily.

“No, I-” her brows furrow in distress. “This must’ve cost a fortune. It would be wrong of me to accept something like this. I’d never be able to match this- I don’t know what you’d want from me-”

“Thalia. I would never ask for repayment.” His outrage is clearly reflected in his tone. “Do you think me so crass?” 

“No, but- Solas,” she struggles to find the words to explain. “It’s- either I accept this, and go about feeling like I’m taking advantage of you, or- oh, I don’t know. You give me something as expensive as this, it makes me feel like I have to- I don’t know, do things you want-”

The moment the words leave her mouth, Thalia regrets them. She knows he isn’t the kind of person to do something like that. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it-” Solas backs away from her, his back rigid. His face is shuttered, eyes cold and hard. “The gift is yours to do with as you please. I did not do this to have you beholden to me; I merely thought I was celebrating a _friend._ ” his eyes narrow as he emphasizes the word. “Happy birthday, Thalia.” It lacks the warmth she’s used to. 

Her vision blurs with tears. Without really being aware of it, her hand stretches out imploringly towards him. “Solas, wait, please, I’m so sorry-”

“Good day,” he interrupts, tipping his head stiffly. “I hope it is a pleasant one.” He strides away, looking as though the very hounds of the Fade are at his heels, like he can’t wait to get away from her.

“You left your-” she calls out, her voice thick, but the door shuts quietly behind his back.

_Void take her_ ! What had gotten into her? She knows Solas was a good man. She knows he volunteers his time and energy to build shelters for the homeless. She knows Fen’harel donates frequently to several non-profit organizations. He’d just admitted to her that people treated him differently when they learned who he was, and what did she do when he offered her kindness? She spat it back at him, coated in suspicion, was what. Her next breath comes out in a sob, loud enough to draw Minaeve from the kitchen. “Lia, what’s- _what’s wrong_?” she exclaims, high-pitched and concerned.

Thalia gulps in enough air so she can speak without choking up. “Solas, he- he gave me a birthday gift-” she points at the book on the counter.

Min glances at it. “That’s very sweet of him, but why are you crying? And where is he?”

“I-” she sniffles. “I told him I couldn’t accept it because-” she wipes her cheeks with the back of a hand, “-because it felt like he was trying to buy my attention-”

“That’s understandable.” Min folds her arm and rests a hip against the counter, watching her.

“Is it?” she hiccups. “I basically accused him of trying to make me indebted to him. He’s not the kind, I know this, but-”

“Look,” Min exhales deeply. “Didn’t your father do that, like, all the time? Buy you expensive shit, then hold it over your head so you’d feel obliged to obey his demands? It’s no surprise that you’re wary. Sure, Solas- or is it Fen’harel-”

“He prefers Solas,” her arms are wrapped around her waist. Her tears have stopped, but her voice is still rough.

“Well, okay, Solas it is. So, yeah. You’ve had bad experiences in the past, and you’ve learned from that. Solas isn’t your father, clearly you understand that on a logical level, but you’re reacting to it based on your experience. That’s understandable, and nothing that an apology and an explanation can’t fix.”

“I’m so messed up,” she moans, dragging a hand down her face.

“We’re all messed up. Now, c’mon, show me what you got?” Min picks up the book, and lets out a soft whistle. “Damn. This thing’s gorgeous. He’s got good taste, I’ll give him that. How’d he know what to get you?”

“Felassan.”

“Of course Fel had something to do with it. Still, this one’s right up your alley. It’s even a first edition,” Min coos in delight.

“He was so offended he left his order,” Thalia eyes the box regretfully. “I have to apologize, but- I don’t know how- I have his number, but I don’t know what to say-”

“Simple!” Minaeve guides her into the kitchen, the gestures at the space with a broad sweep of her hand. “You bake him something he likes, and we’ll have Fel take it with him as a peace offering. Maybe even include a note. Something like, _my dearest lordship Fen’harel, it pains me to the depths of my insubstantial heart that I accidentally offended you-_ ”

“Min!” Thalia elbows her friend. “Stop!”

Her friend continues, a wicked smirk on her face. “ _Nothing is quite as devastating as to know that I have fallen in your lordship’s eyes. I want nothing more than to hand-feed you frilly cake and lick the icing from your lips-”_

“MIN!” The image of Solas covered in icing is- is _dangerous_ is what it is. 

“What?” Wide-eyed, with a look that could melt butter, Minaeve is the perfect image of innocence. “I thought I’d give you something pleasant to think about on your birthday.”

“You’re evil,” Thalia mutters. “Possibly the evillest creature in existence.”

“You wound me deeply,” Min puts a hand over her heart. “What kind of apology cake are you going to make?”

“Something that doesn’t have icing probably,” she grumbles. “Thanks for that, by the way.”

“You’re welcome!” her friend sounds too cheerful. She sticks her tongue out at Min’s back. “If I can offer a suggestion? You should make one of those fancy cakes, you know, the dainty ones that take forever with all those layers? What’re they called?”

“Entremets?”

“Yeah, those! He seems like the kind of guy who’d appreciate them.”

She mulls it over. It’ll probably take up most of her weekend, but Min’s right - Solas would definitely enjoy them. And they’d also be a way to show him she appreciates his… friendship. And that she’s very sorry. Really, she can achieve multiple things with entremets.

“Hmmm. I could make lemon blackberry entremets. Lemon genoise sponge, then a layer of blackberry mousse, then a heart of blackberry jelly…” she pictures it in her mind, a melody of yellow and purple. “Covered with a lemon-white chocolate mirror glaze. I could top it with some tiny fondant flowers…”

“On second thought, screw Solas. You should make that for me!”

That finally pulls a laugh from her. 

The rest of the day goes by without much issue. Customers come and go, and she encounters quite a few familiar faces. Adan stops by for a croissant, and flirts with Minaeve in his usual gruff way. Helisma makes a brief appearance, and shyly hands Thalia a prettily knitted scarf. She wears it at once, preening to Min and everyone around. It makes Helisma turn pink, but there’s a bright, pleased smile on her face.

When Felassan turns up mid-afternoon, the frisson of guilt Thalia’s worked hard to try and tamp down erupts again. In place of his usual cheeky grin is a more sober, somber look, and there’s none of his usual perky conversation. Try as she might, she can’t pull anything out of him but single-word replies. Her stomach churns. She doesn’t want to lose Fel. “Hey, Fel?” she draws him to the side. “Could you take this,” she hands him Solas’ order, now in a brown paper bag, “to, umm, to Solas? He forgot to take it with him-”

Felassan rears back as though she’s handed him a venomous snake. “No!” his nostrils flare. “If you want to return his gift, that’s on you. I’m not your errand boy.”

“Jeez, Fel,” Minaeve chides, “Overreact much?”

She feels tears prick her eyes, blinks rapidly to stop them from falling. “It’s his cake order,” she clears the strange shame-guilt that's clogging her throat. “Two slices of dacquoise. You don’t have to take it if you don’t want to. I just thought, well, since you’re going to be seeing him- he paid for it, after all.” Thalia can't meet his gaze, can't bear to think of the animosity she's sure is lurking on his face.

“I’d rather not be a part of… whatever is going on between the two of you,” he grudgingly takes the bag. “I don’t know what happened, and I’m fine not knowing, but… you should know, Lia, that whatever you said really hurt him. He’s a good man, if lonely, and I thought you two were friends. It isn’t like you to be mean-”

“I thought you didn’t want to get involved?” Minaeve drily remarks, a brow quirked up, lips curled into a scowl.

Fel sighs. “I’m just a little upset, nothing I can’t get over. Sometimes it feels like I’m his only friend, and- I worry about him. I’m sure you had your reasons, Lia. Am I still invited to the party?”

She forces a smile. It takes some effort; she’s still so troubled. “Of course.”

“Great.” He takes his order, as well as the brown paper bag. 

“You’re going to need to get an extra-great gift for what you just pulled-” she overhears Min whisper-scold him as she walks him to the door, but her friend’s loyal defense of her doesn’t make her feel any better.

She likes Solas. Has she screwed things up beyond repair?


	5. Chapter 5

Her birthday goes well, even though Thalia struggles with that tiny curl of guilt in the pit of her stomach. All her friends are here, laughing and joking and teasing her, but she can’t seem to stop herself from searching for Solas.

He isn’t here, and she has no one to blame but herself.

It’s hard, certainly harder than she expects it to be, but she manages to push most of the thoughts about him away and focus on the present. She chuckles at Sera’s jerky, all-limbed dancing, accepts Bull’s challenge to a twerk-off (she loses), and cuts the cake that Varric brought in. It’s store bought, just a regular sheet cake with excessively sweet icing, and she has a momentary pang of regret as she cuts into it, thinking of the one she’d made for herself.

Dorian, Bull, Min and Cole stay behind and help her clean up. It’s past midnight when the last of her guests leave, and she sinks gratefully into her couch, propping her feet up on the coffee table.

A thought strikes her, and she makes her way to the dresser in her bedroom, opening a drawer and carefully taking out Solas’ gift. She runs her fingers reverentially over the cover again, a sad half-smile on her face. Returning to the couch, she opens the pages - carefully, so carefully - and begins to read. It’s a rousing tale, filled with demons and darkspawn and a wise hunter who planned carefully to protect his clan. When she’s done, she can’t help the soft, wistful sigh that leaves her, her mind dancing with the images of brave elves with lightning at their fingertips, and a Keeper both crafty and caring- she throws her head back and groans when she sees that the Keeper wears Solas’ face.

Sighing - because what else can she do, really? - she splashes water on her tired face and brushes her teeth before making her way to the bed. She dreams of Solas, so close but so far away, looking at her with eyes so sorrowful and yearning, and no matter how much she tries she can’t bridge the gap between them. _Ir abelas_ , she calls out, _ir abelas, ir abelas_ , but all he does is watch her. There are hands on her wrists, and when she turns it’s her father, shaking her and screaming in her face and calling her _useless, wretched girl, why can’t you ever do anything right-_

Her eyes fly open, and she finds she’s panting, gasping for air. Her father’s voice is still ringing in her head, _why can’t you ever do anything right, can’t do anything right, useless, useless._ She runs a shaky hand down her face, takes a deep breath in, and lets it out slowly.

_Papae isn’t here_ , she reminds herself. _He has no hold over me._

The clock on the side table tells her it’s the middle of the night. She could try to get some more sleep, but her nerves are too frazzled. Thalia picks up her phone and stares at it for several minutes, debating whether or not she should message Solas. He did give her his number, but… should she disturb him at this hour? Biting her lip she makes a decision, typing out a quick, short message.

_  
Solas, I’m so sorry for what I said. It was unkind, and untrue. Thank you so much for the gift, I really enjoyed reading it. I wanted to invite you to the celebration, but I guess I fucked it up… I missed you, though. If you want, I could save you a slice of cake? It’s nothing fancy, but… I’ll save you some. If you want. _

  
She stares at the words for several long moments, before exhaling heavily and pressing _send_. Restless, she gets out of bed and goes to the kitchen to get herself a glass of water. When she returns, her phone is blinking - sure sign of a new message waiting for her - and her heart starts to beat harder.

_  
Apology accepted, lethallan. Why are you awake this late at night? Should you not be resting? _

  
A smile grows on her face, wider and wider till it hurts her cheeks. He replied. He actually replied. She didn’t lose him. She flings herself onto the mattress, resting on her stomach as she responds.

_  
Had a bad dream. Guilt-induced, I think. Why are you up? Or are you still out clubbing? _

_I’m not really into the nightclub life. I’ve some work I need to catch up on, unfortunately._

_You can’t put it off till the morning? You really need to get some good rest if you want your brain to work right._

_A case of the pot calling the kettle black, is it not?_

_I never said I was perfect._

_No one is, but you are closer to the ideal than most._

  
Thalia blushes. Delight blooms in her chest, filling her lungs, affection and amazement and- _creators_ , did he really say that? She re-reads the message. He did. She wants to refute it - she can feel the bashfulness in the heat of her cheeks and the tips of her ears - but she doesn’t.

_  
… sweet talker. _

_It might be sweet, but it is also true. In any case, madame baker, you should go back to sleep._

_How about I will, if you will?_

_You drive a hard bargain, but I accept. On nydha, Thalia. I hope you enjoy only the sweetest of dreams._

_On nydha, Solas. Son era._

  
She wakes to the sound of a bird singing outside her window. It’s a robin, red-breasted and quite excited, and it calls out greetings to the bright sunny morning. Thalia’s heart is free and unburdened, and the smile on her face could rival the sky, so clear it is. She breezes through the day; there’s nothing to dampen her mood, and her apology baking has turned into a task of love. She prepares the sponges and the jelly, and whisks up the glaze, all to the sound of the music on the radio. Citrus hangs in the air, citrus and berries, and oh, it’s a wonderful scent, and it makes her want to dance around her kitchen, so she does. By the time she’s put the last of the fondant flowers on the entremets, she’s exhausted, but the good kind, the kind where her arms and legs ache but her heart is bright and eager.

She’s too tired to cook for herself, so she orders pizza. There’s a moment right before she begins to eat - the box is open on the table, there’s a slice, warm and fresh, in her hand; the TV’s on, and she’s on her couch, and all she can think of is how alone she is, and how much she wants- _someone_. Someone to share the space with, to press and curl up against, a shoulder to rest her head on. Someone to share food with. Someone to love, someone to love her. With a heavyhearted sigh, she shakes her head, and continues to watch an over-pampered Orlesian bride throw a tantrum over wedding gowns.

When she opens the bakery on Monday again, Felassan’s there and he teases her as he always does. 

“Fel,” she says, rolling her eyes at his incorrigible gossiping with Minaeve, “could you do me a favor?”

“Depends on what it is, and what I’m going to get for it.”

She exhales in a huff. “Creators give me patience. I have something for Solas, and I was hoping you could give it to him for me?” The last part she says quietly, very much aware of the stinging reaction he’d had over- well, that thing she doesn’t really want to think about.

It appears he’s aware of it, because his face softens. “Sure, why not,” he grins. “What is it?”

“Just some apology cake- wait, don’t open the box!”

He does, because of course he does - he wouldn’t be Fel if he didn’t - and Thalia’s annoyance goes down a notch when she hears the appreciative sound he makes. “Oh, these are _pretty_! Lia, why do you never make anything like this for me?”

“It’s cause she’s not interested in _your_ dick, Fel,” Min chimes in, reaching between them and grabbing a handful of paper towels.

“Min!” she sputters, and starts to cough when her saliva goes down the wrong way. “That’s not- I’m not- they’re meant- apology- he’s a friend!”

“Awww, you don’t think I’m cute, Lia? I’m sad now,” Fel mock-pouts, eyes shining with wicked glee.

Thalia groans. “You’re a demon, Fel. You and Min both. Will you take them to Solas, or not?”

“Only if I can take one of them for myself. Call it a delivery fee.”

“I _knew_ you’d say that.” With a triumphant smirk, she pushes a smaller box towards him. “That’s yours. Don’t say I don’t bake nice things for you!”

Fel opens his box, smiles brightly when he sees the two entremets she’s packed for him. “Did I ever tell you you’re the best?”

“No, you should really say it a lot more. Now, go on, shoo. You’re going to be late for work.”

With a tip of his head, and a wink to Min, Felassan leaves, and she returns to dealing with the rest of the morning crowd. It’s close to noon when she finally heads into the kitchen for a breather, sinking into the chair there with a cup of tea that Min’s kept warm for her. She checks her phone - she’s got a new message. Thalia opens it, and chuckles at the picture - it’s one of her entremets, clearly bitten into, and next to it is Solas’ hand giving a thumbs up.

_  
I see you’re enjoying it, _ she types back.

_It is the most glorious thing I’ve ever put into my mouth._

  
She immediately thinks of _other_ things he could put into his mouth, wonders if he’d ever find them _glorious_ . Then immediately proceeds to berate herself - _creators, what is wrong with me!_ Groaning, she shifts uncomfortably in her chair, then crosses one leg over the other to ground herself.

_  
I’m glad. _

_You did not have to do this, lethallan. I had already accepted your apology._

_I know! I just wanted to do something nice. You know, for a friend._

  
He doesn’t reply. Thalia finishes her tea, washes her cup, and puts a fresh tray of muffins into the oven, and he still hasn’t replied. She stares at the screen, gnawing on her thumb, wondering what she’s done to offend him. Huffing, she tries to push it away and return to the front of the store when the phone vibrates.

_  
Friends is a good start. I have a meeting - shall we talk later? _

_Sure, of course. Good luck!_

_  
A good start _ ? What does he mean by that? She’s distracted for the rest of the day as she tries to uncover the meaning behind his words. Does he not want to be her friend? Or does he want more? What exactly is _more_ ? Could it mean he _likes_ her? He can’t, can he? He’s… well, he’s _Fen’harel_ , he couldn’t possibly like her, could he?

“Maker, Lia, why are you so distracted? Let me guess, Solas sent you a text?”

She flushes. “He said he liked the entremets, is all.”

“And now you’re wondering if he’ll be up for a boning session?”

“ _Creators_ , Min!”

“-I’m sure he’d have been down for that even without the cake.” her assistant continued blithely.

“I just… he can’t like _me_ , Min.”

“Why the fuck not?”

“Because! He’s- he’s fucking _Fen’harel_. And I’m- well, me.”

“So?”

“So, I’m not like the people he usually hangs out with. I’m not from his world, Min, there’s no way I’ll fit in!”

Min stares at her, head tilted, eyes thoughtful. “You don’t want to just fuck him, do you?” she says softly. “You really like him.”

Thalia glances away. “Yeah,” she confesses, her voice little over a whisper.

“Oh, Lia.” She feels Min wrap her arms around her. “You always fall for the difficult ones, don’t you?”

“It’s a curse,” she tries to joke, but there’s an uncomfortably thick wetness clogging her throat. “Min, what am I going to do?”

“It’s probably just a crush, sweetness. You’ll get over it. You always do.”

She clears her throat. “Yeah.” 

_But what if I don’t?_ She doesn’t say the words out loud. She can’t afford to.

She forces the thought from her head - _just a crush, just a crush_ , she chants over and over even as she plasters a smile on her face as she hands over change and freshly baked muffins to patrons who can afford pastries on a daily basis while she struggles with her rents, and the insurances, and- maybe if she’d followed Dorian and had actually taken the bar exam and became a lawyer she wouldn’t be so, so… so _insignificant_ -

She visibly freezes at the thought. Thankfully, there’s no one around to notice. Thalia has to close her eyes, has to take in a deep, even, measured breath, and let it out slowly. _That is not me, that is Papae in my head,_ she reminds herself. _I am happy with what I am. I am happy with what I have. I am not Papae, nor do I wish to be. This is my life, and it is a good one._

“Lia?” Min’s hand is on her shoulder, the gentle pressure and warmth so welcome. “Are you alright?”

She flashes her friend a weak smile. “A moment of weakness. Papae got into my head again.”

Min’s eyes, filled with sympathy and understanding, search her face closely. “And did you get him out?”

She smiles, wider, more genuinely. “I did.”

There’s a lull in the store, so she goes into the kitchen to make some tea. The task helps her stay grounded, gives fewer openings for those intrusive thoughts to slither in. When she returns, a cup in each hand, she finds Min restocking the empty shelves. The short-haired woman gratefully accepts a cup, and the two rest against the counter and drink in contemplative silence.

“Why didn’t your mom ever try for sole custody?” Min asks abruptly.

Thalia blows the hot liquid. “She did,” she takes a sip, “at first. But he just kept dragging things along in court, and eventually she ran out of money- and options.”

Min makes a sound of disgust.

“Later, when Sahren and I were old enough to choose, we did not want to see him - but he threatened to file for sole custody, and said he didn’t care if he won or not, he would ensure our mother would be ruined if we did not agree to visit him.”

“He said that? To his own children?” Min is aghast.

She shrugs. “He was - is - smart. He knew that the courts would side with us, so he used our love for our mother to get his way.”

“To what _purpose_ ? What did he _gain_ from it?”

“He was an ambitious lawyer who wanted to climb the corporate ladder. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the perfect family unit, so he instead settled for the next best thing - well-behaved, obedient children to parade around and show off to his bosses. It worked. He got his promotions.”

There’s another long silence. “I know I’ve said it before, but fucking hell, your father is such a fucking asshole.”

She _hmms_ in agreement. 

“Are you worried Solas will turn out to be the same way?”

Startled, her gaze flies to Min’s. “What do you mean?”

“Do you ever think that maybe Solas is just… I don’t know… being nice because he wants something from you? He’s had some setbacks in his career, right? Maybe he’s cozying up to you because you’re a small business owner and you could make some of his policies and stuff look good…”

“No,” it flies out from her immediately. “He’s not like that.” Thalia's eyes narrow. “Where’s this coming from, Min? Weren’t you just pointing out to me the other day that Solas is not like my father?”

“I did, but… how can you be sure?”

“Well, for one, if Solas _was_ like my father he would be using his position to push me into doing things I don’t want. He’s never once done anything even remotely close to that. My father’s the kind of person who shows off his wealth and position. Solas hid what he did, and when he was discovered he didn’t laugh at me, or look down upon me, or mock me, he _apologized_ . That doesn’t sound like something a narcissist would do. Solas is knowledgeable, incredibly so, and passionate about what he does. He genuinely regrets that those workers lost their jobs because of him. Besides, I don’t think Fel would work for someone that inhumane, and I _know_ Dorian would refuse to deal with anyone like that, and Dorian’s a pretty good judge of character. So no, I don’t think Solas has ulterior motives. I think he just wants a friend.”

“Dorian works with the Evanuris, I’d hardly call him a good judge of character.”

“Dorian works with _Mythal_ , not all the Evanuris. And Fen’harel, of course. And Bull’s always there to help him out. I’d trust their judgment over mine any day.” She takes another sip, studies Min over the rim of her cup. “What’s bugging you, Min. Where are all these questions coming from?”

Min shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “I-” she sighs. “I don’t want you to get hurt, is all. I’ve heard bad things about the Evanuris, and seeing how Solas is one of them… I don’t want you to get manipulated again.”

“That’s what I have you, Fel, and Dorian for,” she gently elbows her friend. “To keep an eye on me.”

“I doubt _one_ eye will be enough to keep you out of trouble,” Fel interjects, draping himself over the counter. 

“Fel! When did you- how much did you overhear, _dahn’direlan_?” Min exclaims.

“Enough to know that you don’t approve of my boss.” He prises Thalia’s cup from her hands, drinks from it. “Mmmm. From Antiva, I presume?”

“The Montilyet brand,” Thalia nods as Felassan swallows another mouthful.

“It’s not that I don’t approve of your boss,” Min states heatedly. “I just don’t want him doing something to hurt Lia is all.”

He hums. “He can be quite stubborn, it’s true, but-” he trails off, looking thoughtful, as though he’s selecting his words carefully. “he’s not the sort to do _deliberate_ harm. Not without cause, anyway. Besides, he _really_ likes Lia.” 

Fel’s emphasis on _really_ has her narrowing her eyes, as does the devilishly gleeful look on his face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, you’ll find out soon enough,” he declares airily.

Thalia rolls her eyes. “Did you come here for something, Fel?”

“Ah, yes. It seems I’ve become a delivery man,” he sighs dramatically as he places a bag on the countertop.

“What’s this?”

“Well, since you surprised him with cake, Solas decided to surprise you with-”

“Dinner!” Min gleefully states, already pulling out the many styrofoam boxes. “From that fancy gourmet place, too! Damn, he’s got good taste, I’ll give him that.”

“Half of those are mine,” she swats Min’s hand away. “This is very sweet of him, Fel. He didn’t have to do it-” she quickly boxes up some Orlesian rolls and hands it to him. “Here. Tell Solas thank you for the dinner, and there’s another box for you, because you’re a very nice deliverer.”

“Of course.” Fel makes his way to the door, then stops. He looks- hesitant, even a little troubled. “Lia- I- Solas won’t take advantage of you, Lia. He’s not the sort… but even if he was, I wouldn’t let him.”

Thalia’s face softens. “I know, Fel.” They share a look of understanding, then Fel’s half-smirk returns. He winks at her, and leaves the store.

Shaking her head, she continues on till closing time. Her stomach’s rumbling, and she huffs in pleasure as she warms up their dinner. The food is good, made better with the company of friends, and she finishes every last crumb. _I wish Solas were here_ , she thinks to herself wistfully as she washes her hands. _I wish I could’ve had dinner with him._ She betrays none of her thoughts to Min, the two chatting away merrily even as they’re elbow deep in flour.

Time passes, in its inevitable way, and a new routine is established. Felassan stops by each morning to pick out breakfast - not just for himself, but for Solas as well. Thalia gets into the habit of dropping an extra treat or two with their order, because she knows that Solas has a bad habit of skipping meals when he gets too involved with his work. In return, Solas buys her dinner, always careful to make sure to include Minaeve as well. Sometimes he stops by after work, close to when she’s ready to lock the doors for the evening, and she lets him in. On those days, Min leaves early, and Thalia preps for the next day by herself, never really feeling the burden because Solas’ company and conversation are more than enough compensation.

She learns more about him. He studied at the University of Elvhenan, like his father, and there he graduated top of his class. He dislikes tea, enjoys ballroom dancing, and paints as a hobby. He’s a voracious reader, delving into both fiction and non-fiction alike. He brings her books, notes on Dalish history that she’s never heard before, and they sit and talk and discuss and argue late into the night. He comes into the bakery late one evening, his eyes pained, his brows furrowed, and she consoles him about his perceived failure in preventing more of his workers from losing their jobs. Thalia takes him to her apartment, tries to ignore the shame that inches in when he curiously takes in the small space. She cooks him dinner for the first time, and as they eat at her tiny dining table she reaches out to hold his hand, twining her fingers with his. She tells him, softly but earnestly, that he’s a good man, that it isn’t his fault that Falon’din decided that his profits were worth more than other people’s ability to provide for their families, discusses ways to help the newly-unemployed. He leaves before dawn, covering his neck and head with one of her shawls so he won’t be recognized - and she can’t help but wonder if that’s for his benefit, or hers. When Fel returns her shawl to her the next day, it’s been freshly washed and carefully pressed, and there’s a small box with a flower-shaped brooch within it, and a note that simply says, _ma serannas_.

Was he thanking her for the use of the garment, or for her silence? Was the brooch a gift, or a bribe? She stares at the note, troubled. Is he ashamed of her, of her company, is this his way of ensuring that she won’t sell him out to the press and- surely he knows that she isn’t the sort? Surely he knows, after all this time, that she cares for him, and that she likes him, and that she’d never want anything bad to happen to him?

The green stones in the brooch twinkle and wink at her. It’s a very pretty brooch, embrium with leaves, meticulously crafted. 

_Ma serannas_ . Thank you. He’s thanking her for- she shakes her head. _Get a grip. You’re being too harsh on him. He’s just thanking you with a nice gift, is all. You know he won’t do anything that makes you uncomfortable. If it bothers you so much, you can just ask him what the gift was for the next time you see him. Don’t look for shadows where there are none._

With a soft sigh, she closes the box, and tucks it into her handbag. _Solas is a good man,_ she reminds herself. _He cares about people. He doesn’t see them as pawns to be manipulated, like papae does._ In a sudden burst of rebellion, she retrieves the brooch and pins it to her shoulder, daring Min to say anything.

“That’s a pretty brooch,” Min remarks, leaning in to peer closely at it. “That man has good taste. Interesting choice of flower, too.” She looks up at Lia. “I didn’t think you’d wear it immediately.”

Thalia flushes. “Yes, well,” she says, more than a little defensively, “I thought about it, and… why shouldn’t I? It’s a gift, and it’s- it’s mine, and it’s pretty, and it’s not like I have to justify anything-”

“Whoa, hold on,” Min raises her hands, palms open, in surrender. “I didn’t say it was a bad thing, now. I’m proud of you. That’s the first time you’ve gotten something from him and didn’t question his motives or anything.”

“He buys me dinner all the time and I’m fine with that,” she protests.

“Yeah, but it’s always for the _both_ of us. Even though, let’s face it, I haven’t done anything for him that warrants that favor, but he includes me anyway because he’s so concerned about accidentally offending you.”

Thalia purses her lips, chagrined. She’d never thought of it that way… the way Min’s putting it, _she’s_ been the one taking advantage of him. “Oh, no,” she groans.

“Don’t get me wrong, I love the free food,” Min cheerfully pats her shoulder. “But, y’know, getting something from him, and just accepting it without question? Besides, I’m pretty sure he’s just declared his interest in you.”

“W-what? He’s not interested in me!” she stammers, ears so warm she thinks they might spontaneously combust at any moment.

“Of course he is. He got you _gaildahlas_ . The ancient elves used the flower to indicate their interest to a romantic partner, you know. I mean, how many times have you heard Dalish boys call their girlfriends _gaildahlas_?”

“It’s- it doesn’t have any meaning, Min, it’s just a flower, and he was just being nice-”

Min snorts. “If he’s _just being nice_ , I’m the royal chamberpot. I _told_ you he likes you!”

“Yeah, but- but I thought you were teasing me-”

“Oh, _da fen_.” Thalia narrows her eyes at Min’s choice of endearment, but her friend continues talking unabashedly, “you’re a moron. A loveable, sweet moron.”

“I am not. And Solas doesn’t-” she turns a shade darker, “-we’re just friends.”

“Oh?” Minaeve’s eyes sparkle with mischief. “So if Solas asked you out, you’d say no?”

“I- he- that’s- I don’t have to answer that,” she raises her chin defiantly, but unable to meet Min’s gaze, “because it’s not going to happen. So there!”

Min starts to laugh, and she huffs and pushes her way to the kitchen. _Yeah, right, Solas likes me,_ she slams a mixing bowl onto the counter. _There’s no way he does. We’re friends. That’s enough for me._

_Creators_ , but she was a terrible liar.


	6. Chapter 6

The weather’s cooling down, the hot, humid summer days slowly giving way to the cooler temps of fall. It’s a glorious Sunday morning, and Thalia is enjoying her stroll in the Hinterlands, taking in the golden sunlight and bold rust-colored leaves with no small amount of delight. The air is chill, but not unbearably so, and there’s a pleasant crispness to it. She sits on the bench by the lake, head tilted back and eyes shut, basking in the sunshine. The sound of the waterfall, loud as it is, is also soothing, and she thinks to herself, not for the first time, just how grateful she is to Dorian for this gift.

Her vacation at the Grand Forest Villa has been far more pleasant than she’d thought it would be. The location is beautiful, with more than enough amenities for comfort while being remote enough to remain unspoiled. The kitchen is staffed by renowned chefs from all across Thedas, massage specialists from Orlais, Antiva and Rivain, has not one, but four temperature-regulated pools, guided tours conducted on horseback, and offers the opportunity to have every whim catered to. It is something she could never afford on her own, a chance she never even dreamed she’d get, and yet, she’s here.

Still, something’s missing. She exhales, and opens her eyes as she meditates contemplatively on why she’s feeling so… _mopey_ isn’t the right word, but it’s close enough. There’s an old elven couple walking down the cobblestone path, holding hands. She recognizes them as Emithas and Senna. They’re from Redcliffe village, happily married for fifty five years, and they are here to celebrate their wedding anniversary. Thalia watches, a yearning in her heart, as Emithas slowly, carefully bends to pluck a flower and present it to his wife, who blushes prettily as she takes it.

She sighs wistfully. What must it feel like to love, and be loved, so sweetly? Her phone pings, bringing her out of her melancholy.  
  


_How is your vacation going?_

  
She doesn’t realize she’s smiling, or that Emithas and Senna are nodding knowingly at each other as they observe her. 

_  
Quite well. It feels strange to be here by myself. I nearly walked into the kitchen yesterday - a good thing I was stopped, I don’t think the chefs would have appreciated my presence! _

_Only you would miss working during a vacation._

_It’s not that._ She hesitates, debating whether or not to confess. _It’s just… kind of lonely here, by myself. Everything is beautiful, but I wish I had some company._

_Understandable. Still, try to enjoy yourself. You deserve a break._

_I will. Thanks for checking in!_

_Of course._   
  


She sits there, till the sun’s well below the horizon and the cold in the air has turned harsh, before making her way, almost reluctantly, back to her room. She dresses for dinner, an empire-waist gown that once belonged to her grandmother. It falls just below her knees, the fabric swishing prettily as she moves. She pairs it with the shawl she’d lent Solas all those months ago, stroking the fabric between her fingers as she thinks of the way he’d looked as he’d left her that morning; his head and mouth had been covered, but his eyes had been so bright yet so soft, like a phoenix’s feather. She brings it to her nose, inhales, but try as she might - and she’s tried so many times - she can’t get his scent. Sighing, she drapes it around her shoulders, has a last, critical look at herself in the mirror, and makes her way down to the hostess stand. There’s someone waiting nearby, someone tall and broad-shouldered, leaning against the wall with one hand in his pocket, and- she freezes when she sees his face, those piercing, knows-too-much blue-silver eyes-

“Solas?” she gasps.

He grins rakishly, causing her heart to flutter rapidly, unfurls himself, and makes his way to her. “ _On dhea’lam_ , Thalia.” His eyes sweep her form from head to toe, and she has to suppress a shiver at the tender warmth in them. “You look wonderful.”

“How- when- what are you doing here?” She reaches out hesitantly, touching the cuff of his deep blue shirt to reassure herself he’s real. He is. She doesn’t know how he managed it, but somehow Solas is here, in front of her, looking absolutely, devastatingly handsome. 

“I was in the neighborhood,” he smiles crookedly at her quirked brow, “you mentioned you were feeling lonely, so I thought I would come cheer you up. I hope I didn’t overstep my bounds,” he says, sounding anxious.

“Not at all, but you didn’t have to do this, Solas. I know you must have other, more important things to do-”

“Actually-” she didn’t think it possible, but he sounds even more nervous now, “I- I confess I may have had ulterior motives-”

“Oh?”

Solas flushes. “I had intended- that is- what I mean is-” he sighs, shakes his head ruefully. “It seems as though my brain ceases to function when I’m around you.”

“Do I know _that_ feeling,” she mutters, more to herself but he hears nonetheless and gives her a little not-quite-smile, not-quite-smirk.

“What I’m trying to say - and failing miserably at - is this: I like you, Thalia, a great deal, and I hope you would do me the honor of joining me for dinner?”

Thalia stares at him, utterly certain that her ears have failed her. “You-,” she squeaks, “you _like_ me? You’re- you’re asking me out? On a _date_?”

His face falls imperceptibly at her words. “Yes, but- but there’s no pressure. If you don’t want to, I- I understand, and it will in no way impact our friendship-”

“Solas,” she interrupts, her cheeks hurting from the wide grin on her face. “I would _love_ to join you for dinner.” When he gapes at her, she adds, her voice soft and shy, “I- I like you too. A great deal.”

He looks at her with wonder and amazement, like she’s a shooting star from the night sky taken form. The smile he gives her is slow, and long, and makes a ribbon of _want_ uncurl in her stomach, lights her up inside, like there are fireworks going off in her chest. Solas lifts her hand to his lips and brushes the lightest of kisses to her knuckles. The touch, as brief as it is, is searing, and, and she half-expects to find her skin turned to the most delightful ash. With clear affection on his face, confidence in his eyes, Solas holds out an arm. She takes it, her cheeks heating up, unable to stop herself from gazing up at his gentle expression. He tucks her hand into the crook of his elbow, and walks into the restaurant. She glances around, and is relieved to find that no one is staring at them. The place is mostly empty, and the few couples tucked away pay no attention to her and- well, _Fen’harel_.

“Are you sure this is wise?” she asks as they’re seated in a corner next to the tinted windows. “What if- what if someone recognizes you?”

“They won’t,” he’s so sure, so confident. “It’s all been arranged.”

“What do you mean?”

“No one knows I’m here,” he explains, eyes crinkling up at the corners. “And the owners of the Villa are good friends of mine. They’ll make sure we get no… unwanted attention.”

“Good,” she says, taking a drink from her wineglass that’s been, for all intents and purposes, magically filled. “Good.” A sudden thought strikes her. “Wait, does this mean you planned this?” she blurts out.

His cheeks turn pink. “Perhaps,” he admits. “I- I missed you, at the bakery. I wanted to see you, but- but I did not want to intrude during your vacation-”

“That’s why you messaged me!” she exclaims, sitting back in her chair, arms crossed in amusement. “You wanted to see if I’d be okay with company.”

His freckles stand out against the red tint across his cheekbones and nose. “Yes.”

She laughs, the sound joyful and open. Her elbow’s on the table, manners be damned, and she rests her chin on her open palm. “So,” she purrs, “how long have you been wanting to ask me out?”

Souls smirks and leans back into his chair, an arm draped casually across the armrest. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he teases.

She laughs again, her reply interrupted by the arrival of the waiter. They place their orders, though Thalia is unconcerned about the food. She’d be fine eating fried crickets if it meant she could spend time with Solas, here, like this, on a date. On an actual, honest-to-goodness, date. She pinches the skin of her wrist sharply, an abrupt fear that this might just be a particularly vivid dream, but the burst of pain tells her this is all very real.

Her action doesn’t go unnoticed by the man sitting across her. Solas takes her hand, rubbing his thumb gently across the reddened skin. She’s surprised she doesn’t actually burst into flame. “Something tells me I am not the only one who worries that this may all just be a dream,” he remarks ruefully, a small twist to his lips.

“I had to make sure,” she confesses, a lame attempt at an explanation, but he understands.

It should be different, the atmosphere between them, now that the stakes are higher. But it’s all familiar and comfortable, as it’s always been. Solas mentions his new plan to open a trade school in Skyhold, to offer a chance for the elves in the alienage to learn a skill that they can use to earn a living, and talks of his worries that it would not be enough. She inquires about the possibility of starting a scholarship fund of sorts, so that access to the culinary arts would be easier, wisely pointing out that cooks, chefs and bakers were always in demand. It’s gratifying to note the way he carefully listens to her, asking intelligent questions about what to look for in a suitable candidate, and he promises to look into the option.

She mentions her ideas for a bake sale, the profits meant for the animal rehabilitation clinic that Cole works at, talks about the many animals that her young friend has soothed and healed and returned, whole and hearty, to the wilds, shares her concerns about how he never seems to eat enough. “No one should ever have to go without food,” she says quietly, picking at the greens on her plate. “Especially not a child.”

“You sound as though you’ve experienced it.” At her bitter smile, he adds hastily, “I don’t mean to dredge up any bad memories. I’m sorry if I’ve done so.”

“No, you’re fine,” she waves his apology away. “I’m not ashamed to say that yes, my family went through some tough times when I was a child.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” It’s asked so gently, with so much concern and caring, that there’s a sudden influx of tears in her eyes, and Thalia has to spend several moments blinking them away. 

“I mentioned my parents divorced when I was quite young, yes?” Solas nods, and she continues. “It wasn’t a happy one. My father did not want my mother to leave, and fought against her at every step. My mother wanted full custody of my brother and I, and my father- well, long story short, he wanted to punish my mother for leaving him, and so dragged out the custody case in court till she could no longer afford to fight him, and capitulated to his demands.” She can’t bear to look at him, so she glances out of the window as she takes a sip of wine. “The divorce left my mother impoverished. My father was supposed to pay child support, but he never paid a copper, and to this day I don’t know how, but he got away with it. She wanted to take us to Wycome, where her clan was, but she couldn’t without his permission, and he wouldn’t let her. She had to pay him a great deal of money - her entire savings at the time, as I later found out - so he would let us leave. We lived in Wycome’s alienage for several years, till my mother could afford a place of our own.” She thinks of those times, living in the crowded quarters with no privacy, no amenities, remembers having to wear clothes that were too-big and too-frayed and mended too many times, remembers the cruel taunts of classmates. Her fingers tighten around the stem of the goblet. “Food was hard to come by. _Mamae_ tried her best, she begged and borrowed from as many people as she could, but sometimes Sahren and I went to bed hungry.” She shuts her eyes, thinks back to the times she was shouted at for taking food from someone else, how she’d wait till her classmates were done with their lunches to collect the scraps and take them home with her. 

“My father had me convinced it was my fault,” she says quietly, so lost in the memories she doesn’t see the way Solas’ jaw has tightened or the way his eyes are filled with sympathy. “Whenever we used to visit him - which was rare - he would throw these lavish feasts at every meal for Sahren and I. At the time, I thought it was magical, a miracle even. I’d stuff myself full to bursting, eating even when my stomach hurt, and my father would just laugh and pat me on the back and tell me what a shame it was that my mother kept me away from him, that if only I stayed with him I could have food all the time. I was young, and naive, and bought into his act, but Sahren was wiser. I adored my brother, and so each time he returned home to _mamae_ , I followed, even though I didn’t understand. I can’t imagine how it must have been for my mother, because I would cry and plead with her to return to my father’s so I could have a full stomach. Of course, _papae’s_ pretense of caring stopped when I was ten, after I asked him why he didn’t help _mamae_ feed us. That was the first time I was the target of his temper, and soon after he started his manipulations because I had seen past his mask. He hated not having control over us.” 

Thalia misses the way his fingers twitch momentarily with restrained violence before they reach for hers. She lets out a soft, small, bitter laugh. “You’d have thought I’d have grown wiser with age, but no. I spend so much time - too much time, really - trying to win my father’s affection. I did everything he wanted of me; I thought if I were the perfect daughter, he would finally approve of me, if I obeyed him the way he wanted me to, he would finally love me.” Her lips twist in a wry smile. “I even joined law school because that’s what he wanted me to do. It left me feeling hollow inside, though, empty and lonely in a way I didn’t understand at first. But soon I realized that somewhere along the line, I’d lost myself, and that’s when I started thinking about my happiness.” She shakes her head ruefully. “Father was furious when I turned down the job offer, all but disowned me, but I didn’t care. I wanted to be happy, to find my own joy, and I did, but… all those wasted years. And for what?”

There’s a long, drawn-out silence as she pulls herself back together. Finally, she looks at him, the corner of her mouth lifting up sardonically. “So, there you have it. The sad, sad story of a baker. Still certain you want to date me?

He reaches across the table and cradles her jaw with his hand, thumb gently stroking her cheek. “Why would I not want to? You are a strong, brave woman, and I am both lucky and fortunate to know you.”

She smiles half-heartedly, and leans into his touch. 

“If anything,” he continues, his voice doubting, “I should be asking that question. I cannot fathom what it is you see in me...”

Thalia laughs, and takes his hand. She watches the way the tips of her fingers skim along the back of his hand, enjoying the contrast of her tan against his paler skin. “Do you know the first thing I notice about people?”

“I would assume their faces,” he quips, unfazed by her deadpan look.

“That, yes, but also this.” She turns his hand so it lies palm side up. “Their hands.”

“Their hands?”

She nods. “You can tell a lot about a person from their hands.”

“Oh?”

“Mhmm,” she traces the length of his hands, noting the roughened skin on his palm and the calluses on his fingers. “People who work, people who do things - they don’t have smooth, clear hands.” She lifts one of hers as an example, pointing sardonically at the calluses on her palms and the dark scars that dot the back of her hand. “See?” she lets him examine her hand, tamping down the roil of shame as he does so. “It’s not about manual labor,” she continues. “It’s more about… _passion_ . If you have hands scarred in any way, no matter how big or small it might be, it means something’s moved you enough to use them - whether it be a need for money, or a need to create, or a task to bring joy. But _something’s_ pushed you enough to _do_. And that- that makes a person interesting. Someone with soft, clear hands - what kind of passion would they have, if they’ve never had the need or the desire to use them?”

He stares at her, eyes searching her face, as though coming to some kind of realization. She squirms beneath the intensity of his look. “Anyway,” she mutters, feeling the tips of her ears heat up, “I think your hands say that you’re someone with enthusiasm and zeal, and I think you’re a really fascinating person. I… I know what I think is probably kind of silly-”

“It is not.” He surprises her by bringing her hands to his lips again. She watches him examine them, her nerves tingling from the way his fingers are cradling them, the way his thumbs run over the roughened patches of skin on her palm. She has the urge to pull away, but fights it. She’s never had this kind of... he’s so tender, the way he’s so gently touching her, as though her hands are objects of priceless beauty. “You are quite right,” he steals her breath by pressing his lips to the center of her palm. “Your hands are passionate indeed, Thalia. And they are beautiful.”

He holds her hands the entire time as they talk, his fingers twining with hers, his thumb idly stroking whatever skin it meets. She’s driven half to distraction by the sensation, by the gentleness of the touch. Thalia would never have pegged Solas as the type, but he’s clearly touch-starved, and she wonders for the first time why that’s the case.

“How is it to be a part of the Evanuris?” she asks as they eat the beautifully cooked druffalo steak.

He hesitates, his fork midway to his mouth. “It can be challenging,” he ingests the forkful of food, then continues. “Despite the amount of power each of them has, they still squabble and scramble for more, and they very rarely care about who they affect. The repercussions of their actions do not fall on them, but on the workers, and that- it is frustrating, more often than not, to see the people suffer, and to feel like there is little I can do to change their plight.”

“But I thought they were your friends?” her brow’s wrinkled, and she tilts her head slightly in her confusion.

The laugh Solas lets out is bitter and harsh, and she aches with a sympathetic pain. “With friends like them, I have no need for enemies.”

“Well,” it’s her turn to reach out for his hand. She eases the cutlery out of his white-knuckled grasp, soothes away the strain in his fingers with her own. “You have Fel… and you have me.”

The tension in his shoulders ebbs away. “That I do,” he smiles, the emotion in it genuine. “Though I confess I often wonder what it was I did that led me to you.”

“It wasn’t you, but your sweet tooth,” Thalia winks, and he chuckles. 

“So it was.”

To her surprise, Solas shoos away the offer of dessert. “Would you like to take a walk with me?” he asks. “There is a place I have in mind that I think you will enjoy.”

“Sure.”

They walk out of the Villa - it’s late enough that the only occupants of the large, comfortable vestibule are some older folks who have dozed off in front of the cheerful fireplace. Thalia shivers as she steps outside, her thin shawl no match for the frigid night air, and unconsciously presses closer to Solas.

“Here.” With a swift, elegant motion, he shrugs off his jacket, and drapes it around her shoulders.

“Are you sure?” she asks, even as she pulls it tighter around her. “Won’t you be cold?”

“It does not bother me,” he reassures.

Thalia presses her nose to the collar, inhaling the scent of him. There’s leather and smoke, and something that reminds her of old books and wild forests. It’s warm, and calming, and her brain instinctively registers the fragrance as _home_. She’s warm, and comfortable, and everything around her is so still and so serene and the world around her is glowing with moonlight, and when she walks there’s no sound but she can hear the sound of her heart.

Solas’ fingers brush across her wrist seconds before he takes her hand, lacing her fingers with his. She’s grateful for the dim light, for her cheeks feel too-hot, and even the chill wind does little to dissipate it.

“Where are we going?” she asks, giving his fingers a gentle squeeze.

“Patience, _da’ean_.” Her heart bursts with joy, like pops of the brightest citrus, at the endearment. “You’ll find out soon enough.” His eyes gleam in the muted light, and he tugs her lightly, leading her off the cobblestone path into one that’s well hidden. The scent of crushed grass hits her nose, grass and loam, and she eagerly follows Solas, her hand still within his. They climb up a slope, upward and upward till the grass gives way to a broken brick path, grass and weeds growing between the dilapidated tiles.

“I used to come here as a child, with my parents,” he says as they pick their way carefully towards a spot in the distance that’s illuminated by firelight. Thalia’s heart starts to pitter rapidly. “When the Villa wasn’t as grand as it is now. My parents first met each other here, and they would always return here on that day. The fifth day of Bloomingtide. They said it was fate that brought them together.”

“The fifth day of the fifth month,” she murmurs. “Perhaps it was.”

“Perhaps,” he agrees. “I never much cared for spending my time here,” he smiles, “no child wants to be around overly affectionate parents, and I did not have company my age when we visited. So I took to exploring the woods.” His hand slides from hers to wrap around her waist. “And so it was I discovered this,” he guides her across a wooden bridge. Her heels sound especially loud in the silence of the night. “This used to be part of the original structure of the Villa, but I suspect that a landslide caused it to break off from the main building.”

There’s a balcony of sorts, held securely in place through stone and concrete. It has waist-high wooden railings, and an awning from where sheer lace curtains hang. At this distance, Thalia can make out the many candles that light up the area, the tiny flames flickering and dancing in the breeze. There’s an intricately carved arch that leads to a wooden walkway, the balustrades are covered in vines, but she can recognize the pretty blooms of pansies, asters and lobelia in the moonlight. 

“A pity,” Solas murmurs, reaching out to pull aside the curtains, “because this has the most spectacular view of the valley.”

Thalia gasps as she steps across the threshold onto the balcony. In front of her, nestled in the valley between two peaks and spread out like a carpet, is the forest, the canopy tinted silver under the moon. To her sides are mountains, not as grand as the Frostbacks but magnificent nonetheless, their snowy peaks luminous and shimmering. It’s a magical sight and she can’t help but step closer to the railing, her hands gripping the polished wood tightly as she exhales in wonder. “Creators, Solas. This is- this is _stunning_.”

“Is it not?” He joins her at her side, his arm pressed up against hers, his hand covering hers on the banister. 

She rests her head against his shoulder. “You did this for me?”

His eyes are deep pools, more silver than blue. She could happily drown in them. “Yes.”

“Oh, Solas.” The impulse overtakes her, and she draws up onto the tips of her toes, and presses her lips to his. When he stiffens, she pulls away, shame causing her cheeks to color unbecomingly; but before she can move away entirely from him, he pulls her back to him, his grip gentle but inexorable, and cups her face between his elegant hands before he kisses her again; it’s soft and gentle, full of yearning and want, and she willingly opens up to him when his tongue traces the seam of her lips.

_I was wrong_ , she thinks, her head more than a little dizzily as her hands hold his shirt in a fisted grip. His lips are sweeter than cake, his kiss headier than the finest of wines, the taste decadent and indulgent and wicked all at once, and she wants to drink from them till beyond eternity. It’s several moments before they break apart, both panting in an attempt to catch their breath; Solas’ eyes are hooded, fixed on her face, mouth slightly open, his breath fogging in the space between them.

“Creators forgive me,” she licks her lips, smirking at the way the action makes his nostrils flare, “but I’ve wanted to do that for a long while now.”

“Oh?” he asks, taking a step closer, till there’s less than an inch between their faces. “How long?”

“From the day I first saw you, I think,” she confesses with a soft chuckle.

Solas laughs. The sound sets off the butterflies in her stomach. “As have I, _da’ean_.” He leans in and kisses her again, and this time, she wraps her arms around his neck.

“Can I-” she asks hesitantly when they separate once more, “-will I see you again? In- in Skyhold?” The words come out shaky and unsure, and they’re not as eloquent as she wants them to be, but they’ll have to do.

Solas looks at her, lips quirked in understanding. “I’d like that very much.”

“Good,” she grins, happier than she’s been in a long while, and settles against him. “Good.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a short drabble about Emithas **[here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14930747/chapters/65854420)** , if you're interested :)


	7. Chapter 7

“Mr. Fen’harel?” Maela, his secretary, knocks sharply on the door. “You wanted some details about that animal rescue organization?”

“Ah, yes.” he doesn’t look up from his laptop screen as he gestures her to an open seat on the other side of the table. “Please give me a few minutes to finish this email.”

“Of course, _ser_.” Solas listens with half an ear as she ruffles some papers, the rasp of her clothing as she shifts in her chair, and sighs internally. He really needs some quiet to properly compose the message to June; a single poorly chosen phrase and he will lose the architect’s support for the restoration of the ancient temple in the Arbor Wilds.

_-and your ingenuity was paramount in the fantastic results we achieved. I am certain that this new project will present an interesting challenge to both our skills. I could not possibly imagine approaching anyone else with it, especially since we have always worked so well on previous designs. I look forward to doing so again, should you be amenable. It will be with no small measure of reluctance that I will have to look elsewhere if you decline. I hope to hear from you soon-_ he signs off with a loud exhale.

Maela giggles at the sound. Puzzled, he glances at her, his brow quirked. She’s never _giggled_ before, has she? She giggles again when he catches her eye, and crosses one leg over the other. The action makes her skirt ride more than halfway up her thigh, but Solas doesn’t look at the skin exposed. His mind is on other matters- he checks his watch. It’s three in the afternoon, well past the afternoon crowd at Dalish Delights. Maybe he could squeeze in a quick visit? He could take Thalia some food, they could eat in her kitchen, away from prying eyes-

“What’s on my schedule for the next hour or so?”

He doesn’t notice the way she sulks at his lack of attention. “You have a meeting with Abelas at five-thirty, and Mythal’s PA left a message asking you to call her in the evening, but didn’t mention a time.”

“Oh, I’ll call her when I get home,” he gestures dismissively. “Now, about the details I wanted-”

“Oh, yes _ser_. It’s called White Acres, and it initially began as a mabari rescue shelter. Through funding from King Alistair, it’s grown to include all kinds of animals. The shelter’s goal is to take in orphaned or injured animals, rehabilitate them until they’re well enough to be released back into the wild. There’s a rumor going around that they’re currently raising a griffon fledgling, but the organization has neither confirmed nor denied it.”

“What’s their funding like?”

“They are a non-profit, tax-exempt organization that relies mainly on federal grants and donations. They’ve been struggling the past few months. I have a friend who volunteers there and she told me that the full-time employees have all willingly taken a pay cut because they don’t want to compromise the care for the animals, which if you ask me is kind of silly because-”

“Thank you, Maela,” he interrupts her, a slight frisson of irritation coursing through him at her attitude. “Would you please contact them and ask them for a copy of their budget? Let them know that I’d be very happy to contribute towards such a wonderful cause.”

Maela makes a note on the tablet she’s got cradled in one arm. “Anything else, Mr. Fen’harel?”

“That’s it for now.” He takes out his phone, checks his messages. He can’t help the smile that slides into his face when he sees that there’s one from Thalia.   
  
  
_Will I see you tonight?_

_You might see me even sooner, da’ean._

_Ooh. Really?_

_Have you had lunch?_

_Will you be mad if I say no?_   
  


Maela clears her throat, and he looks up from the reply he’s in the middle of typing. “Yes?” he asks, a touch impatiently.

“I simply thought- I know you haven’t eaten yet, _ser_. I was going to the cafeteria, I could bring something for you, if you’d like?”

“That won’t be necessary. I have to be somewhere-”

“But it’s not on your schedule!” his secretary interrupts, her voice a higher pitch than it regularly is.

Solas raises his brows. Maela flushes and turns her gaze to the floor. “I wasn’t aware of this new policy of yours that requires me to inform you about my personal plans, Ms. Vyanis.”

“I- I’m so sorry, Mr. Fen’harel sir, I didn’t mean to- I just worry about you is all-”

“Your concern is appreciated, but unnecessary.”

Maela opens her mouth, clearly ready to argue, but her reply is cut off when Felassan appears by the door. “Are you busy, boss?”

“No, Maela was just about to leave, weren’t you, Ms. Vyanis?”

“Yes,” she mutters, and reluctantly departs.

Felassan waits till she’s left the room entirely before shutting the door. He lets out a low whistle. “She’s got the hots for you.”

“Who?” He’s still busy replying to Thalia. _I’d be a hypocrite if I did, given that I’ve not eaten yet. What would you like to have?_

“Your secretary.”

Solas scoffed. “I hardly think so. Maela is simply diligent about her job.”

“That doesn’t explain the glare she gave me as she left. I’m telling you, if looks had power, she’d have set me aflame with hers.”

His phone beeps. He quickly glances at the message there. _Anything is fine. Don’t be too extravagant._ “I think you’re exaggerating as always, Felassan,” he replies distractedly, his mind trying to decide on something that Thalia would enjoy eating.

“Who’s got your attention?” his PA makes his way next to his chair, ignoring all bounds of propriety. “I knew it!” he crows when he sees the sender. “I _told_ you the best things were in that bakery!”

Solas flushes. “Indeed.”

“How long have you been together?”

He makes a frantic gesture, a signal for Felassan to keep his voice down. Glancing around his office a touch nervously, he clears his throat. “Several weeks now.”

Felassan whistles. “ _Weeks?_ And you never thought to mention it to me? You wouldn’t even have told me about it if I hadn’t discovered it for myself, would you?” His tone is severe, but his eyes twinkle with mirth.

“I am being cautious,” Solas sighs and leans back, his head resting against the high back of the chair. “I do not want her to- if the press learns about her, it could be disastrous.”

“You’re not being cautious enough, then,” his PA states bluntly as he drops a newspaper onto the desk in front of Solas. In a section at the bottom of the page, in large bold font, a title proclaims, _The Wolf’s New Prey_? 

Frantic, Solas skims through the article. _Fen’harel, the newest - and most controversial - board member of the Evanuris Corp. was spotted canoodling with a stranger at the Grand Forest Villa a while ago. No one knows the identity of the mystery woman, but it appears as though the Wolf has a new partner to warm his bed and soothe away the recent troubles he’s been having with the company..._ He’s relieved to find no mention of Thalia’s name, or anything related to her, but-

“This is most troubling,” he pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling long and slow. “I took every precaution on that trip. No one knew I was there - so where did they get this information from?”

Felassan shrugs. “Someone who works in the hotel, maybe? Someone desperate enough for money to be bribed for leaking information.”

“Not at the Grand Forest Villa, no,” Solas is still frowning at the article. “They are all incredibly loyal. If they had leaked the information, would they not have disclosed Thalia’s details as well?”

“Do you want me to look into it?”

“Yes, please.” Solas rolls up the newspaper and hands it to his assistant. “But do so discreetly. I don’t want any more attention to fall on this than what already has.”

Felassan nods and tucks the newspaper under his arm. He moves around to the other side of the table, and sits in the empty chair there, resting his arms on the table and lacing his fingers together. His brow is puckered, and he looks to be having some kind of internal debate.

“What is it?” he asks impatiently. He checks his watch again. If he doesn’t wrap up this conversation soon he might not be able to meet Thalia for lunch-

“Be careful,” Felassan blurts out. When Solas raises his brow, his assistant’s tone softens. “With her, I mean.” He clears his throat. “She’s kind, and sweet, but also very- not exactly _naive_ , but certainly innocent about, well, the kind of power that comes with money. Your position - you could threaten that... If you’re not careful- if you don’t handle it well enough-” He shuts his eyes, exhales exasperatedly, then reopens them. “What I’m trying to say, old wolf, is this- you are in a position of power. Your actions garner a great deal of attention. She is new and innocent in your world. Be careful with her. If you’re not, the consequences could be devastating.”

Solas is careful to keep his face devoid of any emotion, even as his heart races at the truth of Felassan’s words. The violet-eyed man speaks the truth. If the media - worse, the paparazzi - discovers Thalia’s identity, she will be hounded, her every action and deed scrutinized to the minutest detail, her privacy obliterated. It would be kinder in the long run, he thinks, if he breaks things off with her when what they have is so new and tentative.

And yet.

He thinks of the way her eyes light up each time she sees him, the mischief-filled grin she gives him each time she slides an extra pastry into his order, the deep rose of her cheeks when she blushes. She’s frank and open and honest with him in a way no one else is, hesitant to accept even the smallest of favors but so willing and eager in her generosity.

She is a breath of the freshest air in his smog-filled world, her very company a panacea amidst the vituperous company he keeps. Thalia might call him a good man, but Solas recognizes he is also a selfish one.

And so- he cannot walk away from her.

“Your concerns have been duly noted,” he replies. 

Is it his imagination, or do Felassan’s shoulders tense the slightest bit? He pays closer attention to his friend and assistant, but he cannot make out anything of what the other man is thinking.

“That’s all I ask for,” Felassan rises from the chair. “Is there anything else I can do?”

Solas nods at the door. “You can leave,” he says firmly. “I have a meeting I do not wish to be late for.”

Felassan smirks, the smug twist of his lips almost insufferable. “Best get going, then. Oh, and she likes Antivan food. Thought you might like to know - you know, for your _meeting_.”

Solas scowls, but before he can say anything Felassan is out of the door, leaving a trail of light laughter in his wake. That man is _incorrigible_ and gets on every last one of Solas’ nerves, but Felassan is intelligent and sharp and intensely loyal, and he is also one of the few true friends he has.

He sighs internally. Felassan will likely make it his mission to pry details out of either him or Thalia. He is _not_ looking forward to that.

But he _does_ place a phone order with _Solo Buena Comida_ for albondigas and paella.

The drive to the bakery is longer than he’d expected, thanks to an accident on the highway. Solas thinks he recognizes the victim - there’s only one person he knows with those strange lyrium tattoos - and his theory is confirmed when a very irate Fenris steps out of the now badly-dented SUV, followed closely by an equally annoyed Hawke. He avoids eye contact as he drives past, but calls Felassan and tells him to look into the matter and offer any assistance they might need.

There’s a small crowd inside _Dalish Delights_ , stragglers from the afternoon rush, many of them harried students desperate for a caffeine fix. He parks his car around the back, next to the dumpster, and carefully looks around to ensure he’s alone before getting out. It’s an easy enough matter to use the key he’s been given to slide into the kitchen through the rear, and he steps through the door to find an amused Minaeve staring at him.

“She gave you a key?” the brunette clucks. “You don’t look like an employee, though.”

Solas is used to her antics. Her banter is a refreshing change from those who constantly fawn over him. “I brought lunch?” he holds up the bag, giving her a sheepish grin.

Minaeve laughs. “An adequate bribe.” She points to a free spot on the counter, and he begins to pull out the various boxes. “I’ll let her know you’re here,” she says, flashing him a knowing, but slightly too-sharp smile. There’s a warning at the edges of her lips. Solas inclines his head to acknowledge it, knowing full well she will confront him later. Satisfied, Minaeve wipes her hands on her apron and walks out of the kitchen. He can hear her talking to Thalia, “Hey boss, there’s something that needs your attention in the kitchen-”

He grins at the sight of Thalia all but prancing in. “Solas!” she exclaims, her eyes sparkling in the way they only do for him. “I’m starving. What did you get?”

Solas can’t help the warmth that blooms within his chest. It took a great deal of effort on his part to have her accept the small acts he _wanted_ to do for her without feeling like she needed to reciprocate.

“I went to the Antivan restaurant nearby,” he holds out the still-hot paella. “I thought you might like it?”

Thalia starts to giggle. “Let me guess. Felassan just happened to mention I like Antivan food?”

“Yes,” he grins lopsidedly. 

She shakes her head, but opens up the container and digs her spoon into the rice. “Well, he tricked you.” Her lips twist into a rueful smile. “I’m not really a huge fan of paella.” 

He wraps his hand around her wrist before she can bring the spoon to her mouth. “You don’t have to eat it if you don’t like it.”

“Don’t be silly,” she’s smiling, her brows furrowed in confusion. “I’m not going to let this go to waste.”

“I have albondigas too, if you prefer that.”

“But- Minaeve-”

“Minaeve is going to have the paella, thank you very much,” the feisty assistant breezes in and neatly snatches the container out of Thalia’s hands. “I do _not_ like the sound of albondigas.”

“See? Problem solved,” Solas teases.

“You’ve strange ideas as to what constitutes a problem, _ma fen_ ,” she teases, her nose crinkling up in her mirth.

“Do you mean to tell me that your preference - or lack of it - for Antivan food is _not_ problematic?” he plays into the charade, exaggerating the disdainful, arrogant tone coating the words.

Thalia chokes on the mouthful of food. He rushes to her side and taps her on the back, and she sputters and coughs for several moments before she speaks again. “You can’t make me laugh like that when I’m eating!” she sticks her tongue out at him.

He chuckles. “ _Ir abelas_ , but I will not promise to stop trying to make you laugh. It is the sweetest sound to ever grace my ears.” He watches the way she slowly flushes, as the pink deepens on her cheeks and travels up to the tips of her ears. It never fails to amaze him that he - _he!_ \- can get her to blush so prettily.

“Sweet talker,” she mumbles, unable to meet his eyes. There’s a soft, shy smile on her lips.

“Only with you, I’m afraid,” he sits on the arm of the chair, unable to keep himself from pressing his lips to the top of her head. “The rest of the world thinks me the beast my name implies.”

“Fuck them,” she exclaims, the heat behind the words startling him. She shifts so she’s looking up at him, her gaze locked on his. “They don’t know you. They don’t see your kind heart, your generosity, your concern. If they want to believe the lies, more fool them, but they don’t get to judge. You’re- you’re a good man, _ma fen_ , and I won’t have you thinking less of yourself.”

There’s a strange clog in his throat, one that swallowing does not dislodge. Something unfurls in his chest, ribbons of sweet silk, warm and soft and sweet, and the longer he stares into her so-bright eyes the more he finds himself getting lost in them. Getting lost in _her_. She is-

He leans in, brushes his lips against hers, once, twice, tasting the tang of the tomato sauce on them. Her lips are gentle satin, warm and welcoming, and she opens to him like a flower blooming under the sun, as she responds eagerly, her tongue stroking his. He moans into her mouth, the sound small and desperate and needy, and she returns it to him, one arm sliding around to the back of his neck to pull him closer. He goes willingly, aching for her softness, chasing the heady rush that comes from her lips.

She pulls away, breathless, grins up at him. “Not that I’m complaining, but what was that for?”

He brushes his nose against hers. “ _Ma’asha_ , do I need a reason?”

Her eyes soften, her lips still in that bright smile. “Of course not, _fenor_.”

“Can I simply,” he leans in closer once again, “not enjoy,” he nips her mouth gently, retreating with a smirk when she tries to push for more, “kissing you?” He breathes the words against her lips, and when she bites her lower lip he takes it for the invitation it is and drinks her in yet again.

“Alright, you lovebirds,” Minaeve’s amused voice does nothing to break them apart. “You do realize this is the kitchen, and what you’re doing could constitute a health code violation?” 

_That_ has Thalia pulling away from him, albeit reluctantly. Solas lets out a small, disgruntled grumble, causing her to flash him an apologetic look, even as her eyes drop to his mouth. “She’s right, _siugen’ ma_. As irresistible as your lips are,” she smirks and winks at him, and it’s all he can do to stop himself from pulling her out of her chair and devouring her once more, “I don’t want this place to get shut down.”

He sighs and takes a step backward. “You’re right.”

“I _could_ leave early,” Thalia’s eyes brighten as she offers the suggestion. She turns towards Minaeve. “If you don’t mind closing?”

“If I get all the juicy details tomorrow, sure,” the assistant snickers.

His girlfriend lets out a disgusted noise. “Min!”

“Yeah, yeah, you know I will.”

“Unfortunately, I have a meeting,” he apologizes ruefully. His regret increases when her face falls imperceptibly.

“That’s okay,” he can tell it’s an effort for her to sound as cheery as she does. “I should’ve checked with you first.”

“I promise, I’ll have some free time soon.”

“I know you’re a busy man, Solas, you don’t have to go out of your way for me.”

He frowns at the way her gaze has dropped to the floor. Minaeve has left for the front counter, tactfully leaving them alone. He goes to her side, picks up her hand, takes it between both of his. “ _Da’ean_?”

“I know you can’t have a regular relationship,” she bursts out. “And I know you don’t- you don’t want anyone to know about me. I- I get it… I know I’m- I’m not like-” she inhales, and exhales shakily. “I understand, Solas. Honestly, I do.”

“Is that what you think?” When she doesn’t reply, he tugs her shoulder gently, turning her towards him, sliding his hand up her neck to grip her chin so he can raise her head to look at her. “Do you truly think I do not wish to be seen in your company?”

She still can’t meet his gaze. “I know that- if you do there’ll be publicity, and paparazzi, and- and it all sounds dreadful, I can’t imagine being in the public eye like that, but… but it- it sucks, you know? I just- I want to go out places with you, and- and it would be so nice to have more than scraps of your time.” She clears her throat, and pulls away from his touch. It stings, but he drops his hand to his side. “I know that’s selfish of me. I know. It’s just… I like you so much.” She looks at him now, eyes wide and pleading and nervous and her lips quivers just the slightest before she speaks again. “I- I think I might be falling in love with you.”

Solas’ heart skips a beat, then starts thundering like a herd of wild halla stampeding across the Dales. Before he can say anything, she rushes ahead, stammering and stuttering and her eyes wide and anxious, skittering across the room, looking everywhere but at him, and her cheeks and ears redder than they’ve ever been. “I don’t- you don’t have to say anything, it’s totally fine if you don’t feel the same way- _Creators take me_ , I’ve gone and made this awkward haven’t I? I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything- can we just ignore that last part and pretend I didn’t say-”

He puts a finger on her lips. She falls into silence. “ _Da’ean._ ” His voice is low, so low, and filled with the incredulousness that’s flooded his brain. Did she- did she just say- she’s falling in love with him? _Love_? With _him_? She’s still staring up at him with those large, skittish eyes, and he realizes she’s waiting for him to say something. “Thalia” he whispers, “Thalia… _da’ean_ , _fenor_ , I’m- I think I might be in love with you, too.”

Her eyes fill up with tears, her shoulders slump, and she exhales shakily. “Yeah?”

He nods, gives a soft shaky laugh of his own. “Yes.”

“Oh,” she flings herself at him, wraps both arms around his waist, and rests his head against his chest, where it’s tucked below his jaw, “oh, Solas, I- oh, I can’t believe it-”

He holds her, perhaps a little too tightly for her comfort, but she doesn’t say anything, so he keeps her pressed to him, his chin resting on her head. “ _Da’ean_ ,” he says slowly, “you are- so dear to me. I- I want nothing more than to spend time with you. But- but if the press found out- I do not fear for my reputation, but for yours, _ma’asha_. You’ve read what the press has to say about me- if they learn about you, they will not be kind-”

“I know,” she sighs, nuzzling against him. “I just- I guess we’ll take it slowly. One step at a time?”

He kisses her head. “One step at a time,” he agrees.


	8. Chapter 8

Time passes. As rust hues of fall give way to the snow-covered vistas of winter, Thalia changes the bakery’s offerings to include more warmth. Spices in the pastries, tarts meant to be warmed and eaten, hot chocolate with cinnamon. Her customers welcome the change, and there’s never a bad day for sales.

And she’s still with Solas.

It amazes her. Astounds her, even. Their relationship is quietly solid, well-hidden away from the rest of the world. It’s precious, it feels like a field of wildflowers in her chest, all in full bloom and in full color. Even the icy chill that gnaws her bones as she walks to the bakery each morning does little to quell the warmth of what she feels for Solas.

It’s not all easy work, though. There have been many close calls - more than she’s comfortable with. The press have been more curious than ever, the paparazzi doggedly persistent. Solas has had to take multiple precautions to ensure that her name does not enter the spotlight - and after having read the many tabloid articles guessing the nature of her character (none of them flattering) she’s perfectly fine with no one ever knowing who she is.

Besides, the ones who matter the most know that she’s with Solas, and it’s them she cares most for.

Felassan jokes on many an occasion that he’s no longer just Solas’ PA, but also her media bodyguard. Which is true. It is his scheming and careful planning that allows her and Solas to meet in the kind of privacy they both crave and relish. Many have been the times when Solas has driven up to her apartment in Fel’s car, a hood over his head and shades covering his eyes to protect his identity. And she still hasn’t forgotten that one instance where Fel had made her wear that ridiculous housemaid outfit so he could get her into Solas’ mansion.

She’d done very little cleaning that day. They’d made quite the mess, actually.

Her cheeks heat up at the memory. 

“You’ve got that look on your face again,” Min teases, bumping Thalia’s hip with hers. “Got laid last night, did you?”

Her face turns pinker. “I’m  _ not _ going to answer that.”

“You don’t need to, it’s practically oozing from your pores,” her friend laughs as she inspects the batter in the stand mixer. “I’m glad you’re happy. You two are…” she clears her throat. “You’re cute together.”

“Is that a  _ compliment _ ? From ol’ iron-heart herself?” Thalia places the back of her hand against Min’s forehead. “Who are you, and what have you done with my friend?”

Minaeve rolls her eyes. “Forget I said anything.” She stirs the batter, testing the consistency of it, then adds the chopped fruit to it. “Have you thought about-” Min cuts herself off ruthlessly, her back to Thalia, busying herself with pouring the thick yellow batter into a greased cake tin. 

Thalia waits till she slides the tin into the preheated oven. “You’re worried about me.”

Her friend stills where she’s hunched over the sink. Her shoulders slump with the heavy sigh she lets out. “Yes.” There’s silence, broken only by the soft  _ whoosh _ as the gas oven flares to life. Still Thalia says nothing, waiting for Min to face her.

“How long will this last?” There’s a crease between Min’s brows. Her arms are crossed tightly across her chest. Her mouth is downturned, and there’s a corner of her lip that’s quite red, as though it had been worried by teeth. “All this…  _ hiding _ . The secrecy. It’s clear he cares for you, but…” Min sighs. Her hands drop to her sides. “I don’t want you to get hurt, Lia.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Min’s eyes search her face, probing in the way only those who know her best can. Whatever she sees there, she’s not reassured by. “What happens when everyone knows about the two of you? What will you do? What will  _ he _ do?”

The slippery knot of nerves and inadequacy that’s ever-present in her chest flares to life, sliding its way into her lungs till she feels her breath catch, as it always does, each time she thinks about those very same questions. She and Solas have agreed to take it one step at a time, but what does that even mean? If they’re slowly getting serious - and she hopes they are - shouldn’t they be planning for the future? Planning to make what they have public?

“I don’t know,” the words come out slowly, and with effort. She doesn’t look away from Min. “I- I keep thinking of it. A lot, really. But- but  _ I don’t know _ , Min. When I think about it… I get scared. Terrified, actually. I’m- you know I don’t like attention. And he gets nothing  _ but _ attention. I suppose, if either of us were smarter… but I can’t imagine that, either.” She drags a hand down her face. “I’m in love with him, more than I should, I think,” she confesses. “And I’m pretty sure that… that this is not going to end well for me.” She glances at Minaeve, pleading with her friend to understand. “But I can’t- I can’t  _ not _ do this. I can’t not be with him. So… so I’ll take what I can, for as long as I can. And hope for the best.”

Min sighs, shakes her head. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Lia.”

She forces out a laugh. “Does anyone, really?”

“I suppose not,” her friend exhales. “I just-” she shakes her head again, dumps the empty mixing bowl into the sink and washes her hands. “I want you to be happy,” Minaeve is unusually quiet. “You deserve to be happy.”

“I am happy.” The  _ for now _ hangs in the space between them, unspoken, but they can both feel its presence.

Min’s eyes are fixed on hers, and it’s all she can do to not fidget. There’s so much concern there, concern and worry, and a hundred things unsaid swirl in the depths of Min’s gaze, each a lead bar sinking down to her belly. She brushes past Thalia to the shelves that hold the large containers of baking supplies, but doubles back to pull Thalia into a hug. “Whatever happens, I’ll be here for you, okay?”

She returns the hug, the warmth of the contact helping to subdue that sly little voice at the back of her head. “You’re the best, Min.”

“That I am.” Min pats the top of her head, and goes to measure out more flour.

Thalia wants to laugh, but her stomach feels weighed down, her chest too heavy. She pulls herself together with effort.  _ One step at a time, _ she reminds herself.  _ What will be, will be _ .

* * *

It’s close to Satinalia, and the market is extraordinarily crowded. Thalia feels almost claustrophobic as the swell of strangers press up against her. It’s a fight to push her way through the throng to get to - where, exactly? She pauses, and looks around. Where exactly was she planning to go?

She pulls out her phone, checks her list. Limited-edition, hardcover versions of Min’s favorite detective stories, check. Discreet but comfortable bluetooth headphones for Felassan, check. A bottle of Dorian’s favorite wine, and a yearly subscription to the wine club, check. A fancy new fountain pen, and those speciality inks for Varric, check, a cashmere sweater for Helisma, check, horn balm and a super-fluffy pink bathrobe for Bull, check, nice, sturdy clothing for Cole, check. She runs her eyes down the list, pleased to see that she’s ticked off the majority of them. Most of them, really. Except one.

Solas.

Her brows knit together unconsciously. She pulls her lower lip between her teeth, worries it incessantly as she observes the “???” she’s put next to his name.

What  _ does _ one get someone who has, well,  _ everything _ ? She  _ could _ just bake him something fancy, but… she’s done that so often it feels like cheating, now. No, she should get him something… but what?

Well, she’s certain there are plenty of things she could get Solas, but she doubts any of them would fit into the budget she’s set. She flushes with the shame of her comparative poverty. She manages to drag herself to the bookstore, the tips of her ears still red as she very carefully keeps away from the section with the rare and first-edition books, the section she  _ knows _ he’d be most interested, but her wallet screams at her from where it’s resting in her handbag. There’s a section on history, and architecture, and art, and she isn’t sure which one to go to. 

She stands in front of the shelves, feels her skin getting tighter and tighter, feels indecision and insecurity speed up her heart. She’s not good at this. She’s not good for  _ him _ . Why is he with her?

Why is getting him a simple stupid gift so difficult? 

Her mind whirls.

_ Stop,  _ she orders herself. Thalia breathes in, long and deep, holding her breath and counting to eight before she exhales.  _ Think _ . Another inhale. Another breath slowly released. What does she know about Solas? Enough to know that he doesn’t care about how much something costs. Everything she’s ever given him, he’s always gratefully received, with that wide-eyed, disbelieving look, the shy uncertainty that he was getting something.

Her heart aches. He isn’t any more used to receiving gifts without strings attached than she is. No matter what she gets him, she knows he will cherish it.

Thalia makes a quick decision, heads into the history aisle, lets her fingers drag along the spine of the books. None of them catch her attention until her eyes land on  _ the _ one - she reads the title, and knows it will be perfect. She pays for it and leaves, her mind already on the entremets she will make; a thin base of chocolate cake, atop which will sit a delicate, airy chocolate mousse, which will be covered by a light hazelnut joconde sponge, topped with a dark chocolate ganache and garnished with a salted hazelnut brittle.

It will be perfect for the cold, dark winter nights, and she can see Solas curling up in that large leather couch in front of the fireplace, his eyes filled with that boyish, eager delight as he bites into one, licking off the melted chocolate that will coat his fingers-

Perhaps he will even let her feed him.

Her mouth is suddenly dry, her throat parched. She wants nothing more than to go to him, to climb into his lap and slake her mouth across his so she can drink from him, glut herself on the taste of him. She wants to run her hands across his shoulders and rake her nails down his back, to make him feel this sudden madness as she does.

She makes her way as quickly as she can to her little compact car, sliding into the driver’s seat, and locking the doors. Then she groans and lightly beats her head against the steering wheel.

_ What is wrong with her _ ? She’s not a hormonally-overloaded teen, but whenever she thinks of Solas, she feels like one. Like there’s fire banked beneath her skin, waiting for his touch to blaze once more. It’s addictive, yes, but disconcerting, because no one's ever made her feel this way before- and she can’t help but wonder, does he feel it as well? Does his chest ever ache with the force of his desire? Does he ever have to pinch the skin inside his wrist to ground himself from the sudden, fierce yearning?

She’d ask him, but she’s scared. What if the answer is  _ no _ ?

There’s a tap on the window. Thalia starts, then calms when she sees it’s only Dorian. She pushes the button to roll down the window. “You scared me!”

“Rescued you is more like it,” he dips his head closer, examining her face, pulling back when he’s satisfied she isn’t in any emotional turmoil. “I see you’ve been Satinalia shopping,” he eyes the many bags lying on the back seat. “Would any of those be for me?”

She swats his hand. “No, and stop peeking. You can wait to find out!”

“Patience was never my finest virtue,” he sighs, before adding, too-casual and too-innocently, “Did you find anything for your favorite bedmate?” 

“Dorian!” she gasps, looking around to ensure they’re alone. They are. Dorian’s jacket, though exquisitely tailored, doesn’t draw any attention. “I did,” she admits, her cheeks flushing. “I got him a book, and I thought I’d bake him some-”

“No, no, no, my dear,” he’s shaking his head before she can even finish. “Oh, not the baking, I’ve seen how he enjoys your goods,” there’s a wicked glint in his eye as he emphasizes  _ goods _ , “but really, you don’t want him curled up in bed with a book.”

“I don’t?” she’s confused. “Why not?”

“Because,” he pushes a small bag through the open window and places it on her lap. “You want him to curl up with  _ you _ in bed, of course.”

Still frowning, Thalia opens the mouth of the bag, takes a look at it's contents, and instantly flushes a deep red. “Dorian!” she hisses.

“Oh, come now,” he lounges against the door, “you can’t get me to believe that the two of you haven’t, shall we say,  _ frolicked _ in bed.”

“That’s- that’s none of your business-”

“Besides, I can guarantee that you in  _ that _ -” he nods meaningfully at the bag, that mischievous glint still in his eyes, “will be the best Satinalia gift you can give him. With the cakes, of course. Multiple levels of dessert sounds right up his alley,” Dorian smirks, and she can feel the heat radiating from the back of her neck and the tips of her ears.

“Dorian, this looks expen-”

“Not another word, Thalia.” His gaze turns flinty, his eyes thinning to match his mouth. 

Ashamed, she drops her gaze. Dorian is one of her oldest, dearest friends. She will not sully his thoughtful - if brazenly cheeky - gift with thoughts of debts owed. Thalia sighs, then meets his eyes. “Thank you,” she says, soft and earnest, and covers his hand with her own. She means it. “Even if it’s quite shameless, mind.” From anyone else, it would be presumptuous, but it’s Dorian, and she knows he means it as a way for her to pamper and feel good about herself - even though she knows Solas will have no complaints.

Dorian’s face softens. “When have I ever been less than shameless, hmm?”

She chuckles. “True.”

He murmurs something about an appointment, presses a quick kiss to her forehead, and leaves. She watches fondly as he strides away, gratitude overflowing for her luck in having met him all those years ago.

Her attention turns back to the bag. It’s contents are made entirely of lace, the color a deep wine-red that she knows will contrast wonderfully with her skin.

Her blood begins to hum with excitement, soft and low. She wants to wear this. Wants to see his face when he sees her in it.

She wants-

She wants.

* * *

Thalia’s usually in Wycome for Satinalia, but this year her mother is off vacationing with a group of her friends, somewhere on the warm, sun-soaked beaches of Antiva. She’s glad for it - if anyone deserves some R&R, it’s Gallea Lavellan. Sahren is spending the holiday at his to-be in-laws house, and he’d called her just a few moments ago to thank her for the gift she’d mailed him.

She’s got a cup of mulled wine in her hand, steam rising from the rich red surface, the scent of orange and star anise perfuming the air. Dorian’s house is packed with the usual faces; Bull is here, of course, as is the rest of his security team; she watches as Dalish and Skinner attempt to coax Grim to join their conversation. Varric is busy teasing Cassandra, who seems to be rolling her eyes every two seconds, a most impressive feat. Sera’s trying to persuade Cullen to try a slice of cake; he’s giving it a very dubious look, as he should - she saw Sera liberally dust what looked to be deep mushroom powder on it. Leliana and Josephine are huddled together, their phones out, the two women quietly giggling over whatever is on the screen.

Blackwall is by the large buffet table, too busy staring at the amount of food Cole is piling onto his plate to bother putting any on his own. Thalia makes a mental note to ask Dorian to pack some leftovers for the lad; he seems to have put on some much-needed weight, but he still looks too pale and thin for her liking. 

Felassan and Minaeve are, as they usually do, sniping at each other, Minaeve too riled up to notice that poor Adan is trying to catch her attention. She sighs and shakes her head when the poor pharmacist gives up and makes his way to Helisma, who offers him a shy smile.

“Quite the turnout,” Solas murmurs into her ear as he takes his seat. “Do you know all of these people?”

“Most,” she lets herself press up against his arm, wanting to feel him but also taking care not to draw too much attention. “Some I’ve only met a few times, like the Chargers over there.” She gestures to them with her wine glass. “Varric and Cassandra are regulars at the bakery;  _ honestly, _ Varric,” she sighs and shakes her head when Cassandra stomps away from him, her cheeks red. “One of these days she’s going to punch him, I just know it.”

Solas huffs a quiet laugh and shifts, angling himself so part of her back is leaning on his chest. “If I were to kiss you here,” his voice sends shivers down her spine, “would that be a bad thing?”

Thalia licks her lips and glances around the room. Everyone  _ seems _ to be preoccupied, even Dorian, so the coast appears to be clear… “I don’t think so,” she turns her head and tilts her chin upwards, so that her lips are brushing his jaw. “You could get away with it, if you’re quick enough.”

There’s a brief pause before his lips meet hers. He tastes of chocolate and red wine, and she can’t help but lick into his mouth because she wants more of it. Solas’ hand on her lower back digs in; he tries, unsuccessfully, to pull her closer.

Someone hoots; she can hear Bull whistle in approval, and the Chargers are clapping and laughing. “Knew you had it in you, baker girl!” Bull cheers; there’s a dramatic leer on his face and he gives her a very blatant, obnoxious wink. She turns pink and has to hide her face against Solas’ shirt, which only draws more attention their way. 

“Okay, that’s adorable Kitten,” Varric’s grinning, and there’s a suspiciously bright glint in his eye. “I’m going to have to jot that down for the next book.”

“By the Creators, Varric, if I see that in the next installment of Swords and Shields I will throttle you, I swear it!” she exclaims, half-amused, half-horrified. 

“You’re right, it doesn’t belong in that series; I might have to start a whole new one,” he teases. Thalia narrows her eyes at him. Varric laughs and lifts his hands in surrender, “alright, alright, Kitten, my lips are sealed.”

“I should hope so,” Dorian drawls, gliding in on a cloud of expensive, luxuriant perfume. “What happens here stays here. We’re all friends and we care about each other, don’t we?”

“That’s right,” Bull booms, thumping Dorian on the back, causing the Tevint to stumble forward inelegantly. “Is it time for gifts yet?”

They gather in the large, carpeted living area, seating on the plush couches or, in her case, on the floor by the fireplace. She smiles up at Solas when he sits next to her, reaching out to cover his hand with her own.

“Alright, you lovebirds, keep it in your pants,” Blackwall grumbles.

“I think it’s sweet,” Cassandra sighs wistfully. Her eyes widen and dart around till she spots Varric, and then her gaze narrows. “Pretend you don’t know this about me,” she commands.

“I don’t know, Seeker,” Varric shrugs, “I’m going to need some motivation to keep my mouth shut. Like, shall we say, a date?”

Thalia watches fascinatedly as Cassandra’s cheeks turn the prettiest shade of pink. “Are you asking me out, Varric?”

“I’ll call you,” he winks at her. Cassandra jolts, and turns pinker, as though she’s only just realized she’s not alone.

“That would,” the Seeker clears her throat, “that would be- acceptable.”

“Right, now that all the romance has been dealt with-”

“Come on,  _ kadan _ , shouldn’t we give everyone a demonstration of our own?” Bull purses his lips and makes kissy noises at Dorian, who glares at him.

“Absolutely not, you big oaf. Don’t think I didn’t see you practically  _ inhale _ the majority of that limburger. If you think I’m going to let that mouth anywhere near me, you’re sorely mistaken.”

Thalia winces. She had a soft spot for cheese but even she hadn’t been able to weather the particularly ripe scent of the limburger.

“Shall we get on with the gifts, then?” Dorian announces, and everyone is soon exchanging gifts.

Dorian’s gotten her clothes of course, a long, elegant peacoat, several silk dresses (“really, Dorian,” she huffs exasperatedly, “ _ when _ am I ever going to wear these?”), and an invite to that three-star Michelin restaurant in Minrathous run by the famous Felix Alexius. Bull’s signed her up for several self-defense lessons at the local Vale Tudo studio. There are more gifts, all of them thoughtful and sweet, and yet they don’t hold her interest; Thalia’s mind is on giving, not receiving. 

When everyone’s busy with opening their gifts, she draws Solas aside. “I hope you like it,” she says shyly, unable to look at him while he unwraps the paper. She’s suddenly insecure once again - what if he doesn’t like it? - but his happy gasp tells her all she needs to know, and  _ Creators _ , the way his eyes light up when he sees all the petit frilly cakes- she knows then, for certain, that she is head over heels in love with him.

“Here, my turn” he hands her a small box wrapped in simple gold paper. Thalia can tell by the size and the weight of it that it must be some kind of jewelry, but Solas must have anticipated her dismay because he covers her hand and says, “I promise it is nothing extravagant. If you truly dislike it, I will return it, but please, open it first.”

She does. It’s a red velvet-covered box, definitely a jewelry box, and she opens it slowly. Nestled on the satin cushion is a thin, delicate silver chain, and hanging from it is a small but beautifully detailed silver wolf jawbone.

“Do you like it?” he asks, uncertain now at her silence.

She nods, tears pricking her eyes at the symbolism. “Yes,” she breaks out into a watery grin. “Creators, yes.”

“I’m glad.”

She bites her lip, then leans in. “I have one more gift for you,” she whispers into his ear.

“Oh?”

“I’m wearing it,” she breathes softly, watching gleefully as his eyes widen, then narrow. “And you know what the best part is?”

Solas swallows, hard. His palms settle on her hips, his nails pressing into her skin, and he pulls her closer to him. “What?”

She can feel her cheeks heating up. She’s not usually so brazen, but- “ _ I’m going to take you deep into my mouth and taste you. _ ” 

He groans. His eyes dart around the room, searching for the door. “Can we leave? We should leave.” He lifts her hand up to his mouth, places a wet, open-mouthed kiss on her inner wrist, where her pulse is beating wildly. “Now.” He nips the skin. “Please.”

She licks her lips. “Let me just grab my jacket and purse.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here be smut! Safe to say, it's definitely **NSFW**.  
> 
> 
> * * *

The dusk falls over the white carpet of the landscape, painting it in hues of grey-blues and purples. Solas’ mansion is isolated, in the middle of the Frostbacks surrounded by a dense pine forest and tall, majestic peaks, and she adores it. It feels like the way she feels when she puts her feet up on the ottoman after a long day on her feet, like the way a warm shower feels on her shoulders when she’s stressed out with balancing her finances. Here - and it should be strange, it really should, because it isn’t hers, not really - is safety, is comfort, is her lodestone. 

She’s by the window in the lounge, the one with the nook with the deep-cushioned seat and plush pillows. The sky is lit up in shades of brilliant vermillion and turmeric, and though the wind outside rattles the glass, she doesn’t feel the cold bite of it. The evergreens in the forest are silhouetted, but she admires the way the frost on their leaves glitters prettily.

There’s a slow song playing through the speakers, a woman’s voice, high and sweet, crooning wistfully about love found, lost, and rediscovered. Thalia’s sprawled out carelessly on the velvet throw, the hem of her dress hitched artlessly to mid-thigh, her legs - bare and long and lean - dangling off the edge. She hums with the song, the wine pleasant in her blood.

“You are so beautiful.”

She smiles at the voice, and turns her head towards the source. Solas is leaning against the wall, his shoulder pressed to it, his legs crossed at the ankles, one hand in the pocket of his slacks. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, and the look in his eyes holds both devotion and hunger. She shifts, places both feet on the ground. “I didn’t hear you come in,  _ ma fen _ .” She pats the space next to her. “Come. Sit with me?” She looks up at him through her lashes, the corner of her lip twisting upwards.

Solas unfurls himself, stalks towards hers. His grin has a bit too much teeth. It makes her want to tilt her head back, to bare her neck in offering, so she does.

He growls. It’s a soft, low sound, but it makes her thighs clench.

She sighs.

Solas pushes her knees apart with his legs, moves to stand between them. His back bends, curls to cover her, and there’s a dark glint in his eyes as he searches her face. She breathes in; his scent is crowding her, leather and musk and the expensive wine they’ve just shared, and she can feel the heat of his body warming her. She licks her lips, unbidden, her gazed dropping to his mouth, and he leans in closer, till there’s but half an inch between them.

“So beautiful,” her face is framed between his long, elegant hands, and he breathes the words like a prayer against her lips. She tries to lift up, to close the distance between them, to press her lips against his and kiss him, but he wraps her hair in his fist and grips hard, stilling her. 

“ _ Solas _ .” Her lip curls up into a snarl. She hates being denied.

He has that tooth-filled grin once more, the kind that makes him look like a ravenous predator. It makes the space between her legs go soft and wet, makes the heat start to build in her veins. She tries to shift, to press herself against his thigh, but he tugs her hair again, tuts in warning. “Wait,” he says, the smirk on his face edging towards cruel. He waits till she wets her lips again, then runs his tongue between the seam, soft and slow and too, too light.

A groan rises from the back of her throat.

He huffs a laugh against her mouth. “What do you want from me,  _ fenor _ ?”

Thalia moans at him. Her head would loll back if it wasn’t for his grip on her. He’s barely touched her and already she feels more than half-boneless, like she might slide down and form a puddle at his feet. “Kiss me,” the words come out in a sultry whisper, “please, kiss me.” She tries again to meet his lips, but he thwarts her efforts once again, widening the gap between them.

He does kiss her - he presses his lips to her forehead, then her nose, then her chin, then presses wet, open-mouthed kisses up her jaw, all the while holding her still. Thalia trembles; her hands go to his hips, fists in the soft cotton of his shirt, and she tries to pull him closer, so she can rub herself against the thigh that’s so tantalizingly near.

“Not yet,  _ vhenan _ ,” he says, and now she really  _ does _ melt when he follows the path down her jaw back to her mouth, taking her lower lip between his teeth and licking it. She breathes out a pleading whine, and she can feel him smile. “So impatient,” he murmurs, gently guiding her to lay back against the cushions, covering her body with his, “and I haven’t even kissed you yet.”

“Please,” she whimpers again, tugging his shirt free from where it’s tucked into his pants so she can touch him - and when her fingers finally meet his skin, feels how warm and soft it is, her breath hitches.

Solas’ hand lets go of her hair, and moves to her chin, drawing it up and angling it ever-so-slightly before he brings his mouth to hers. It’s such a relief, even that little touch, but then he’s kissing her with the tenderness of a cherished lover and everything in her turns to syrup. He doesn’t let her deepen the kiss, intending to kiss her the way he wants to - which was unbearably sweet and for eternity, apparently, and she can no more help the sounds pouring from her throat than she can the air in her lungs. Then he licks her mouth, and she opens up to him, and he softly meets her tongue, and he takes her to a place where everything is lush and luxuriant and so full of affection she wants nothing more than to pull him into her so this will never end.

His hand slides down her neck, stroking the pulse there, before his fingers meet her collarbone. She moans into his mouth, her back arching into him, offering more of herself because she wants more from him. He breaks away from her, his chest rising and falling, and he brushes his lips against her before he speaks. “Not here,” he kisses her as though he can’t quite bear to be parted from her. He rises, and holds his hand out to her, helping her to her feet when she accepts. 

“You are such a tease, you know that?” she grumbles as she subtly pulls down the zipper at the back of her dress.

Solas laughs. “ _ Ir abelas _ ,” he says, but he doesn’t sound sorry at all.

“You will be,” she threatens, taking one step, then another, closer to him.

And then she peels the arms of her dress off her shoulders, lets it fall and pool around her feet.

The sound he makes is deep and primal and comes from the back of his throat. He inhales sharply, his nostrils flaring, and he staggers - actually staggers! - backwards.

It’s very, very satisfying, and the smile she gives is sharp and filled with feminine smugness.

“You will be the end of me,” he mutters hoarsely. His fingers twitch for a fraction of a second before he reaches out for her, and then his grip on her is too-tight but she welcomes it. “And I would let you,” he speaks against her lips before he kisses her, hard and desperate, his tongue mimicking what he wants to do to her most intimate of places.

Thalia’s arms are wrapped around his neck, one hand cupping the back of his head; her nails graze his scalp the way she knows he likes. “Why speak of endings, when you could have me instead?” Boldly, she takes his hand and guides it between her legs, pressing his fingers to the scrap of lacy cloth there. He hisses when he learns for himself just how wet she is. “ _ Ar lath ma, _ ” she gasps as he strokes her through the thin barrier, shifts her hips in a vain attempt to get him to apply more pressure. “Solas,  _ ar lath ma, vhenan _ .”

His fingers still. She whines at the loss of friction, then gasps the next second when he lifts her into his arms. “ _ Ar lath ma, _ ” the sound rumbles through his chest and into her skin. He’s looking at her as though she is a goddess. As though she is  _ his _ goddess. 

“Oh?” she teases, sensing his sudden somberness. “Prove it, then.”

The wink she gives him, combined with the coy twist of her lips, works to shift the mood. His gaze turns half-lidded, the expression on his face wolfish, and the grin on his face is all smirk. It is a lethal combination, and it has her heart beating faster. “You may come to regret that,  _ ma haurasha _ .” She shuddered at the timber of his voice, the sheer amount of desire coating the words.

Solas climbs up the stairs to his room, the one she’s been in so many times she’s begun to think of it as  _ theirs _ . He’s gentle as he places her on the bed, but instead of following her as she scrambles back towards the pillows, he straightens and simply watches her. She preens under his gaze, stretching her arms over her head, arching her back, knowing full well what he’s seeing - her pale skin against his navy sheets, the bold red proudly announcing the most intimate parts of her, and she writhes, just the slightest bit, lifting herself on her elbows and tilting her head back, her legs parted enough for him to see the dampness that stains her underwear.

And then she sighs, soft and yearning and breathless all at once, and he  _ snarls _ .

And pounces.

“You are  _ magnificent _ ,” his voice is thick with lust, before he slides his mouth across hers. Despite the softness of his lips, his kiss is anything but - it plunders, it ransacks, it  _ devastates _ , and the sounds he’s coaxing from her are so lewd she’d blush if her mind still worked. Her legs go to wrap around his waist; he’s hard already, and she ruts against him, uncaring that her slick is staining his pristine wool pants.

“ _ Ma arasha _ ,” he groans against her mouth, adjusting himself to better fit between her legs.

“ _ Solas _ ,” she whines, pulling his head down so she can taste him again. “ _ Vhenan _ .”

He doesn’t let her. Instead, he turns his attention to her jaw, up to her ear, using his tongue to run up the length and curve of the shell, sucking the tip of it into his mouth, his hands busy stroking her neck, her collar, the tops of her breasts, every part of her save those she desperately wants him to touch.

She gives a half-sob when his fingers just barely brushed her nipples. She knows this mood of his; when he’s patient and slow and methodical, when he would touch and stroke and edge her to the crest of madness over and over before he’d bring her completion.

Thalia both loves and hates it.

“Solas,  _ please _ .” Knowing what he plans doesn’t stop her from begging.

“Patience,  _ vhenan _ .” He dips his head, places the lightest of kisses on the side of her breast. When he licks the taut bud through the cloth, it’s only his hand on her sternum that keeps her from jolting upright. He teases her mercilessly like this, with lips and tongue and teeth, till she’s whimpering. “Allow me,” he whispers, unhooking her bra and pulling it away.

His hands return to her breasts, and without the barrier his touch intensifies. It’s exquisite torture, the way his thumb rubs across her nipples, the way he rolls them between his fingers. He twists them, lightly at first, then harder till she whimpers in discomfort; then he brings his mouth down to them, wraps his lips around one and sucks, and her mind goes blank.

No thoughts, just feelings. Just the way his mouth suckles at her, the way his tongue circles her now painfully hard nipple, followed by his teeth scraping so lightly across it. She’s lost to the way his hand is stroking her belly, circling her navel, sliding across the skin of her inner thighs. Light, soft touching. It shouldn’t be as distracting, as  _ arousing _ , as it is. By the time he reaches her core, she’s fluid, mindless, beyond soaked.

He brushes his nose up her slit, through the cloth. “You smell of the sweetest sin,” he tells her, his eyes more silver than blue. She shudders as his voice vibrates through her. “Sin, in such pretty packaging,” he croons, nosing at her clit.

The touch is enough to have her riding a sunbeam; it’s nice, pleasant even, but it’s not enough, it’s not what she wants, it’s not what she craves for. She doesn’t know how it happens - or when - but her lace panties are off, and- are they actually hanging from the chandelier?

Further thinking is prevented from the first touch of his tongue to her opening.

Solas is incredibly, impressively, thoroughly methodical when it comes to tasting her cunt. He feasts from it, his tongue leaving no inch unattended. It’s a performance in and of itself, the way his hand on her lower stomach keeps her from writhing the way she wants, the thumb of that same hand idly stroking her clit as his tongue dips into her passage. She can’t predict the rhythm, and it keeps her, frustratingly, infuriatingly, from the orgasm that she can feel building in the tips of her fingers and her toes. Her cunt clenches around nothing. She sobs, and begs, and pleads. She feels so  _ empty _ . She needs to be filled. She needs-

“Solas,” her voice is low and rough and thick with desperation, “please,  _ pleasepleaseplease _ , please-”

He uses the very tip of his tongue to swirl around her clit, and she breaks off into another sob. “Do you want this,  _ ma lath _ ?” he presses one finger into her, up to the first knuckle, and it’s a relief but it’s not  _ enough _ . She rolls her hips, or tries to, frantic in her need to have it deeper within her.

He pulls it out, now coated to knuckle with her slick - she’s so wet she’s dripping - and rubs it against her pearl, back and forth, light then hard, then circling it, his touch so good but always, always keeping her off-kilter.

She can feel a tear slide out of her tightly closed eyes. She breathes his name out again, and again, and again-

His finger slides into her again, a temporary relief. She will never tire of his hands, of the way it takes a mere cant of his fingers to- she her back flies off the bed as he hooks his finger to rub against  _ that _ spot within her. “ _ You are cruel _ ,” she whimpers in elven, the pressure of his hand keeping her from moving the way she wants to.

“Yes,” he agrees softly, his eyes fixed on her face. 

“ _ Please _ ,” she begs again, her neck aching with the effort it takes to keep her gaze on his.

“Tell me what you want,” he looks at her with eyes that resemble the Void.

A void that, at the moment, she is more than happy to jump into with both feet. “ _ Fuck _ me,” she demands, but it comes out high and breathless and more a moan than an order.

His grin, if it can be called that, is both soft and feral. “Yes,” he dips his head, wraps his lips around her clit, and tugs, just a little, just enough to have her hips follow the movement. “But not yet.” With that promise - was it a promise, or a threat? She can’t tell - he turns his attention once again to her core, sliding those long, long fingers - two of them, to be precise - into her, deep enough that they’re stroking something in her she didn’t know existed, but it makes her mind go black with thick, dark pleasure.

He still won’t let her move, the assho-

She  _ screams _ when his lips cover her clit and his the flat of his tongue taps relentlessly against it, and then he  _ sucks _ and she’s flies clean off the edge, every part of her spasming and juddering and convulsing-

By the time she reaches the shores of something resembling sanity, Solas has undressed, and she shivers at the press of his bare skin against hers. Her vision is still bleary as she looks up at him. The smile he gives her is very, very self-satisfied indeed, and it makes her want to slap his chest, so she does.

He laughs. It’s little more than an exhaled huff of breath, but it draws her attention to his lips. His mouth and chin are shiny with her slick, and when he kisses her, she tastes the salt-musk of herself.

His cock, hard, rigid, is pressed against the side of her thigh.

“I think someone’s feeling a little neglected,” she coos. Thalia’s surprised to see Solas turn slightly pink.

“I had hoped, that you would-” he coughs, looking suddenly shy. “There was mention of- tasting me?”

Her smile is positively, absolutely, entirely wicked. “Of course,  _ vhenan _ .” She waits till he’s settled back, half-upright against the stacked pillows, arranged so that he can look at her. She shifts, moving lower, till her mouth is hovering above his cock. “Turnabout is, after all,” she enjoys the hiss that escapes between his teeth as she takes his length in her hand, “fair play.”

And she takes his tip into her mouth, slides her tongue over his slit, and sucks.

Solas doesn’t quite shout, but he does grunt her name - loudly - into the air, and she can tell by the way his hands have fisted into the sheets that he’s keeping himself from fucking into her mouth. She’s distracted by him - distracted by the way his jaw is clenched, the way his eyes are hooded and dark, the way his plush mouth is thinned out with strain.

“You’re gorgeous,” she tells him sincerely, one hand wrapped around the base of him. “I could sit here, and stare at you all day. This,” she bends to run her tongue up his length, licking off the beads of pre-cum weeping from his swollen crown. He tastes bitter, salt and sweat and musk, but it’s addicting. “Tasting you is a bonus.” This time, she nips the crease between his thigh and his groin before taking him into her wet mouth again, slowly sliding her lips down his cock, her hands pressed to his thighs to keep him from shifting. When the tip of him hits the back of her throat, she gags - he’s not just long, but girthy, too - only for a brief moment before she relaxes and he slides into her throat.

He’s so stiff, so tense under her fingers.

She breathes through her nose, inhales, moans and swallows, and now Solas  _ does _ shout, crying out her name with the kind of pleading fervor she’s heard only from the lips of the Chantry sisters calling out to their Maker.

She releases him, the crown of him sliding from her lips with a loud, obscene  _ pop _ . “Did you like that,  _ ma lath _ ,” she teases, her hand loosely wrapped around his length and pumping lazily. “Would you like me to do it again?”

Solas’ head is thrown back, revealing the taut length of his neck, his tendons jutting out in stark relief. The lump in his throat bobs up and down; one arm covers his eyes, the other gripping the pillow by the side of his head.

Thalia bites his thigh. Lovingly, of course, but it leaves a reddened mark.

He jerks, stares at her. “I asked you a question,  _ ma lath _ .” Her hips sway from side to side, an unconscious action, the result of her trying to alleviate the ache that’s slowly building up between her legs once again. His eyes follow the motion, hypnotized. She licks her lips, then drags the tip of her tongue from root to tip, slow, so slow, tracing the thick vein there. Her hand strays down to his balls, stroking them lightly with the tips of her fingers before she cups and firmly massages them.

The hiss he lets out makes her clit throb.

Pouting, she moves away, the hand that was on his balls now scratching the inside of his thigh. “Don’t you want this,” she sighs, moving to her knees so his cock lies in the valley of her breasts. She gives him a look through her lashes, catching her lip between her teeth, “Don't you want me?” 

“ _ Thalia _ ,” he growls, a warning.

“No?” She breathes against his length, the sound mockingly mournful.

He gives in. “ _ Please _ ,” he half-groans, half-begs. It’s enough for her. She moans as she wraps her lips around him again, swallowing him down in one fluid motion. He pulses inside her mouth, and she works her tongue around him, coiling, tracing patterns where she can, gathering up the liquid at his tip that’s now flowing freely.

His hand tangles and snarls in her hair, and he’s gripping so hard her scalp hurts, the sting of it shooting pleasurably down her spine towards her core, making her drip out onto her thighs. She’s sopping, she can feel it, and her cunt is fluttering, yearning, aching for the cock that’s sitting on her tongue.

The slight ache in her jaw is worth the sounds he’s making.  _ Creators _ , those sounds, all whines and sharp inhales and shaky moans and he even curses,  _ fenedhis _ , it slips through his lips. His breath turns rough and heavy each time he pushes beyond the back of her throat, and she moans in sympathetic pleasure - it only serves to make his breath hitch and his hips buck so he pushes in deeper. She lets him - he so rarely loses control, and it’s always a source of pride, the few occasions she manages to make him break. Thalia tries to keep going as much as she can, but when it starts to burn she - regretfully - has to pull back, instead adding her hand to the base, pumping in time with the motions of her mouth, twisting her fist to add to his pleasure.

“Thalia, wait,” he gasps out. She stills and looks at him, raising a brow the best as she can. “I want to be in you,” he explains, smoothing her hair back from her brow. His hand cups her cheek, his thumb sliding across her lips. He presses the tip of it into her mouth. She moans wantonly and sucks on it, swirls her tongue around it. “ _ Isalan gara suin na _ ,” his voice is throaty and rich and it vibrates through her, making her shudder.

“Yes,” she moans, and stalks up his body. They both share a whimper when her slit brushes against his hardness, and she can’t help but grind against him. The friction is so good, and the way the tip of his cock rubs against her clit has her panting. She’s stopped, however, when she’s suddenly - and unceremoniously - rolled onto her back. 

“ _ Nuvenan pala ma sule banalan in ma, _ ” his cock is hard and hot against her belly, and he makes the words sound like the best kind of treat. “Will you let me?”

“Please,” she half-sobs, lifting one leg to wrap around his waist. “I take witherstalk, it’s okay, but please,  _ please _ fuck me-”

Solas grips her hip, his fingers digging into the flesh, and stills her. He shifts, settling onto his knees between the cradle of her legs, then peels away her foot that’s digging into his back and drapes it over his shoulder instead. “Breathe,” he reminds her, and she does, but it’s of little use because he drives the air from her lungs when he hilts himself in her depths in one swift, hard, fluid motion.

Thalia thinks she shouts his name. She isn’t sure. She’s only certain of the way she’s so full, the press of his cock - warm and thick - against her walls, the slight burn that only adds to the indescribable pleasure. 

“Good?” he asks, his voice like the rasp of gravel. She can’t speak - she’s not sure how words work - so she nods instead, rolls her hip to signal her need for more.

He pulls out, slowly, the drag of each inch a torturing kind of bliss, then slides in at the same rate. He sets a pace that could put glaciers to shame, and she clenches around him each time he enters and withdraws, desperately attempting to prolong the contact, to goad him into more. She succeeds - he’s not immune to the pleasure, and soon he’s rutting into her with long, scooping strokes that have her squirming and writhing and babbling nonsensical things. His hands are not idle - the hand not keeping her open to him is splayed out on her stomach, pushing down each time he enters her so she feels him more intensely, each stroke causing her to make tiny mewling gasps because she’s forgotten how to breathe.

His thumb, that traitorous, delicious digit, rubs her clit, keeping a rhythm opposite to the way he’s fucking into her. The discordance of the two builds the ecstasy within her, each thrust ratcheting her to a place higher, hotter, more molten than she’s ever been, till she’s both desperate and terrified for the climax.

She breathes out something - a plea, maybe, or just a jumble of incomprehensible noises - but Solas understands, and he rocks into her harder, faster, his cock growing impossibly thicker within her. Thalia can’t take her eyes off his face - he’s looking down at her through the smallest slits of silver, his gaze fierce and focused and feral, his jaw taut, lips peeled back to bare his teeth. His cheeks, neck, and chest are flushed red, and his skin is covered in a fine sheen of sweat- he circles his hips, reaches up to lightly pinch her nipple, and Thalia keens.

She’s close, she’s so close, she can feel the storm spreading out from her cunt, past her stomach, past her chest, flooding into her brain, lighting up every last nerve till all she can feel and see and smell is Solas, till he’s the beginning and the end and she doesn’t know where he ends and where she starts-

He shifts, leans over her, kisses her and in doing so, takes the last of her breath from her-

And she shatters.

Ecstasy seizes her from her scalp to the very tips of her toes, seeping outwards from her bones through her muscles till it feels like it's pouring out of her skin, and she's gasping his name over and over and shuddering and trembling and convulsing around him, causing him to groan and rut into her even harder, almost like a beast, and with a beautiful, haunting, gasping sort of howl, he follows her into completion, shaking in the aftershocks before he collapses, taking care not to fall on her but to the side of her, still joined with her.

They stay there like that, unmoving, panting, trying to pull themselves together till he softens and pulls out. Thalia can’t wipe the dazed grin from her face as she turns her head to the side to stare at Solas. He looks so content, so at peace, so unburdened by the trials of his station. 

He looks- free.

She leans in and kisses his nose.

He opens his eyes, blinks at her, and gives her one of those rare, open, whole-hearted smiles, the kind that starts in his eyes and lifts his nose the tiniest bit and brings out the dimple on his cheek. 

“ _ Ar lath ma _ ,” she says, and brushes her nose against his, so close she can see the tiny specks of violet scattered through his iris.

“ _ Ar lath ma _ ,” he says, and pulls her into his arms so she can rest her head on his shoulder. She presses her face against his neck, inhales his scent, then exhales contentedly. His arm wraps around her waist and holds her to him, his chin resting on the top of her head.

She lets the feel of his breath and the sound of his heart lull her into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations from FenxShiral's Project Elvhen-
> 
> _Isalan gara suin ma_ : I want to come in you
> 
> _Nuvenan pala ma sule banalan in ma_ : I want to fuck you till I empty myself in you


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some **NSFW** here!  
> 
> 
> * * *

It’s the day before First Day, and Thalia’s scrambling to get all her custom orders ready for pick up. Even with Minaeve’s help, there’s still so much to do. There are the Orlesian rolls that Madame de Fer has requested, the two dozen cheese danishes that were ordered on behalf of the Ferelden royal family (and hadn’t she just about fainted after hanging up with the King’s Steward), the  _ nine dozen  _ spiced chocolate cupcakes for Mythal, the various apple, pumpkin and cranberry pies that the locals have reserved, not to mention the baking she wants to do for her closest and dearest friends.

“Lia, there’s someone here for you,” Min rushes into the kitchen, haphazardly pushing away the strands of hair that have fallen into her eyes.

“Who is it?” she wipes her hands on a kitchen towel nearby, and takes a moment to just breathe in and out.

“No idea. He looks all somber and broody, though. Like he’s got a particularly large stick up his ass.”

“Min!” she chides without any heat, shaking her head as she walks out. “Hi,” she smiles at the serious-faced man. “How can I help you?”

“My name is Abelas,” he inclines his head ever-so-slightly in greeting. “I am here on Mythal’s behalf-”

“Oh, are you here to pick up her order, then?”

He blinks once, his golden eyes narrowing in irritation at the interruption. “Yes, but she has a request. She asked if she could get her order packaged in-” he places several very pretty boxes on the counter space between them, “these.”

Thalia counts them. There are nine boxes, each of them in different patterns. There’s one with owls holding branches of holly, one with wool-capped bears, one with prancing halla, and one- she smiles when she sees it. One with black-furred wolves wearing bright red bows around their necks.

“Sure,” she says. “Do you want to wait here, or would you rather return after-” she checks her watch. “I should be done in about half an hour, I expect.”

“I’ll wait,” his face is still impassive.

“Um. Okay,” she didn’t expect that. “Feel free to sit wherever you want. Can I get you something? A cup of tea, maybe?”

“That would be quite welcome. Thank you.”

She watches as Abelas seats himself in a corner, positioning himself so that he could look out of the window and keep an eye on her. Suppressing the urge to roll her eyes - he’s still looking at her, after all - she goes into the kitchen to retrieve the massive order.

“Order pickup?” Min guesses as she lifts up the first of the cupcake trays.

“Yeah. I think he’s Mythal’s assistant. He’s called Abelas.”

“Strange name, for an elf,” Min grunts. “Why aren’t you packing them up before you take them out?”

She shrugs as best as she can. “Mythal’s provided her own boxes.”

“Rich people,” her assistant shakes her head reprovingly. “Whatever will they think of next?”

“I think it’s sweet,” Thalia makes her way to the door. “Makes it feel more personal. Some of the patterns are really pretty.”

Min holds the door open for her. “Sure, you can buy whatever you want if you have the cash for it. I’ll guess I’ll just have to stick with what the rest of us plebs can afford.”

Thalia laughs. “Hey, that ten-copper store isn’t all that bad. I got my storage baskets from there, you know.”

“Never said it was.” Min directs a look at Abelas, who’s now staring rather disdainfully at the two of them. “Definitely a pretentious prick,” she mutters beneath her breath.

“Min,” she warns, giving her friend  _ that _ look.

“I’m going back to finish up the de Fer order,” her assistant huffs, giving Abelas a quick sneer before returning to the kitchen.

Before she begins, Thalia brews a pot of tea. She slides a cup of the black leaf-citrus-bergamot blend onto Abelas’ table, with an apple-cinnamon muffin on the side.

“I didn’t ask for-” he frowns.

“It’s on the house,” she gives him a patient smile. “Both of them.”

His frown turns deeper, disarming her. “That is a poor business model,” he stirs in a sachet of sugar, tapping his spoon on the rim before placing it aside. “Do you make it a regular habit to not charge your customers?”

She sighs. “Given the fact that we aren’t open to the public, you’re not a customer. You’re here to pick up an order. I’m just being polite. If you want to pay for the tea and the muffin, then by all means, please feel free to do so.” More than a little frazzled, she returns to the counter, steadfastly ignoring his presence - a feat that’s not easy, especially since she can feel his gaze on her. Thalia works quickly and deftly, lining each of the boxes with colored cotton and confetti to resemble snowfall, before placing the cupcake holders into them and filling them in with the pastries. 

“Do you want me to tape these shut, or would you rather have me use a ribbon? I have some available, it’s a gold color and will go with the patterns,” she glances up at Abelas, startled to find him now seated at the table closest to the counter.

He’s got his head tilted to the side, and is examining her with an intensity that makes her want to tremble. It’s several moments before he speaks, and when he does, she doesn’t miss the way the corner of his lip curls upwards in a microexpression that she can’t decipher. “May I see the ribbon you intend to use?”

“Sure.” She reaches down under the counter and takes out the box, pulling out the shiny bunting. “This is the one.”

“That will do,” he nods.

Thalia works hard to make sure it’s perfect, that the knot is tight, the bow crisp, and she even curls the edges. It takes another twenty minutes, but she’s done. “All done,” she calls out, beaming at Abelas. Her smile drops when she sees his impassive face.

“What do I owe you?” he asks. She still can’t make out even an inkling of what he’s thinking..

“Um…” she realizes, with a sinking heart, that she hadn’t discussed any additional charges for her wrapping before she started.  _ Lesson learned _ , she sighs internally, before plastering on her best customer service smile. “Nothing,” she chirps.

His eyes narrow, and his frown returns. “I wish to pay for my tea,” he steps towards the cash register. “The muffin was on the house, I believe.”

“You don’t have to-” she cuts herself off when he glowers down at her. “Okay,” she mumbles, punching in a number into the register. 

Abelas types in a hefty tip, a number that has Thalia’s mouth hang open. “The tea was excellent,” his face is unreadable as he slides his card into the reader. “And Mythal will appreciate the extra effort you have expended.” He puts the card back into his wallet, pins her with the force of his look. “Do not undervalue your work, baker.”

She nods mutely, watching as he gathers up three of the boxes into his arms and leaves the bakery. Someone else - a driver, she thinks, judging by the uniform he’s wearing - enters to collect the rest of the boxes, and Thalia smiles when he wishes her a good day.

Huh. Not such a pretentious prick, then, and she goes to the back to tell Min as such.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Minaeve places a box into the fridge. “Good for him. Any Mythal, I guess. They do say she’s a good one.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. She pays her employees well. They have great benefits, get paid vacations, and their insurance plans are the best, really. Small wonder all of them are loyal to her.”

“Maybe I should go work for her,” Thalia laughs.

“Sure, why not? You’re already dating one Evanuri, might as well work for another.”

“Then again, I’m not sure I want to wear a uniform. I think I’ll pass.”

“Good decision. They’ll probably put you into a frilly apron, and one of those funny hats - what are they called - fasteners?”

“Creators, can you imagine? Me, in a pink frilly apron and those wobbly monstrosities on my head?” she chortles at the mental image, letting out a very unladylike snort in the process.

“I’d find it beyond amusing, but you never know. Ser Wolf might enjoy that sight,” Min winks.

“Ugh.” Thalia rolls her eyes, shakes her head as she wipes down the countertop.

“Hey, it’s a known fact that guys like girls in frilly aprons.”

“Is that what Adan’s into?” she teases. “Never would’ve guessed! I should ask him the next time he’s here.”

“You breathe insomuch as a syllable, and I  _ will _ throttle you,” Min threatens.

“Adan and Minaeve, sitting in a tree,” Thalia chants, running around the kitchen, dodging Minaeve’s attempts to grab her, “k-i-s-s-i-n-g! Min’s in an apron, pink and frilly, then what Adan does is screw her silly!”

“You are an absolute  _ banshee _ ,” Min’s caught her now, and has her arms wrapped around Thalia, the two women howling in laughter.

“Definitely not,” a masculine voice causes Thalia to pull away. She beams up at Solas. “I thought it was very amusing.”

“Sure, side with your girlfriend,” Minaeve grumbles. “I’m going to burn all of your aprons and replace them with pink, frilly ones,” she threatens.

“Hey, I’m the boss, so I’ll just make you wear them instead,” she sticks her tongue out at her friend before turning to Solas. “What brings you here,  _ ma fen _ ?”

“I wanted your company,” he smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling up. 

“Oh,  _ vhenan _ .” She hugs him, pulling his head down so she can kiss his cheek. “I wish I could, but I’m-”

“Busy,” he finishes for her. “I know. I have work to finish - I thought that I could, perhaps, work here?”

“Of course,” she kisses him again. “You’re always welcome here, you know that.”

“So I did not even need to bring a bribe?” his eyes twinkle with mischief.

“I’m always ready to be bribed,” Min puts down the piping bag and makes her way towards them. “What is it?”

Thalia clears some space on a counter so Solas can place a large bag atop it. He pulls out several familiar-shaped boxes. “Pizza!” she exclaims gleefully.

“I didn’t know if you had any favorites, so I brought a variety,” Solas smiles. 

“There’s enough for three meals here,  _ ma lath _ ,” she scolds lightly.

“So you don’t have to cook tonight,” he explains, his face a picture of innocence. “I’m certain the both of you will be exhausted after all your baking efforts today.”

“I knew there was a reason I liked you,” Min states as she places a slice onto her plate.

“Because of the food?”

“That, yes, but mostly because you make Lia happy.” She bites into it, using her fingers to pinch off the stringy cheese. “‘Course, that means if you break her heart, I get to break your head.”

“It’s a deal,” he agrees solemnly. “ _ Ma lath, _ where can I set my laptop up?”

“Would you mind sitting at one of the tables? Min and I need all this space to cook,” she explains, her lips twisting into an apologetic grimace.

“So long as I am not noticed by the people on the outside, any place will do.”

“There’s a corner that’s well-hidden. It’s a little close to the restroom, though.”

“That will suffice.”

“Not that the bathroom’s smelly, or anything, in fact I just cleaned it today-”

“Thalia.” He has that patient smile, the one where tiny brackets form on the edges of his lips, and his eyes soften. “It’s fine, truly.”

“If you’re certain. Would you like some tea?”

“No, he won’t, he detests the stuff. C’mon Lia, even I know that,” Min’s carrying the huge box of flour, and she ignores Solas’ efforts to help her. 

“Worth a try,” she grins at the way Solas’ nose is wrinkled exaggeratedly. “I’ll make a convert of you yet,  _ ma lath _ .”

“A futile project,” he exhales a soft laugh and kisses her forehead.

“Hot chocolate, then?”

“If it’s not too much effort?” Solas dips his head to kiss her again, on the mouth this time, his tongue softly teasing her lips.

She pushes him away, her eyebrows raised. “I think you’re trying to distract me.”

“Can you blame me?” His hands are on her hips, his thumbs stroking the flare of her waist. His gaze is filled with bright mischief.

“I absolutely can,” she shakes her head, but she goes up on her tiptoes to press a kiss against his lips. She adores the lushness of his mouth, loves the way it fits so perfectly against hers, even the way his plush lips are ever-so-slightly chapped. “I have  _ work _ ,” she grumbles.

“As do I,” his gaze is heavy-lidded as he looks down at her, making no move to let go of her.

It’s tempting, so, so tempting to take a break and just- but she shouldn’t. “Later,” she sighs, and takes a step away. 

He lets his hands drop to his sides, a rueful twist to his mouth. “Perhaps my coming here was not the wisest of ideas.”

“Nonsense,” Thalia briskly shoos him out of her workspace and helps him settle into a comfortable corner. “We’ll be done before you know it, and then,” she winks outrageously at him, “we can have our fun.”

Solas pulls her down so she’s straddling his lap. “But the idea of you, here and now, is so appealing,  _ vhenan _ ,” he nuzzles against her neck, touches his lips to her collarbone.

“Solas,” she chides, but even she can hear the slight whine coating the syllables. 

He noses at the hollow of her throat before flicking his tongue against the skin there. Thalia shivers, squirming where she’s seated, trying to introduce the now-soft place between her legs to the hard plane of his thigh. “I’m starting to think,” she pants lightly, “that  _ work _ wasn’t on your mind when you decided to come here.”

She can feel him smile against her shoulder. “Would that be such a terrible thing?”

“Terrible?” her breath hitches when he gently nips her neck. “No.” She shifts, searching for more friction, but is thwarted by his hands on her hips holding her steady. “Surprising, yes.”

“Have I not demonstrated,” he plants open-mouthed kisses with the smallest hint of teeth up and down the slope of her shoulder, “on many an occasion,” he sucks a mark into the crook of her neck, and Thalia has to cover her mouth with the back of her hand to stifle the moan that nearly pours out, “that you are absolutely-” Solas nips the soft skin behind her ear, “thoroughly,” he runs his tongue up the gentle blade of her ear, and this time she  _ does _ moan, “completely irresistible for me?” With that, he pulls the tip of her ear between his plush lips and sucks lightly, and if it weren’t for the anchor of his hands she’d have fallen off his lap. As it is she’s arched up against him, hips rocking as the core of her becomes wet and swollen.

She can’t seem to remember what it was she was doing before Solas turned up. It doesn’t seem important. What  _ is _ important, however, is the fact that he’s hard where he’s pressed up against the junction of her hips, and the friction is so good but not enough-

“Thalia,” his voice is low, deep, urgent. “Where is the bathroom?”

“Hmm?” she blinks up at him, dazed with arousal. “Behind you, that way,” she points, then begins to stand up.

Before she can, however, Solas has picked her up, his hands beneath her thighs, a smirk on his face when she squeals in surprise. “What are you-” she starts, but he steadfastly makes his way to the men’s bathroom, and locks it behind him, “-doing?” she squeaks, moving to stand by the sink when he lets her down.

“Privacy,” he explains. He steps away from the door, clearing a path between her and the only exit. “We do not have to go any further if you’re uncomfortable. I will not overstep any of your boundaries,  _ vhenan _ .”

Thalia stares up at him, her heart hammering away from behind her ribs. She looks around, and licks her lips. She’s never done this before, yes, never particularly wanted to, but- but she knows this room is clean. She knows there’s no one outside, and that Minaeve is in the kitchen, out of earshot.

And still, there’s something so  _ naughty _ about having sex in public that the very thought of it makes her cunt throb. 

Judging by slight upturn to the corner of his lips, the one that shows just a hint of canine, Solas knows what her response will be. Even so, he waits patiently for her to say something.

She takes a step towards him, then another, then the last one brings her in front of him. She licks her lips again, watching as his gaze drops to her mouth. “Yes,” she breathes up at him. 

“Yes?” he asks, still not touching her.  _ That won’t do, _ she thinks.

“You can’t just tease me and leave me hanging, Solas,” she leans up and presses her mouth, rough and hard, to his. “It’s not very gentlemanly.”

“What gave you the idea,” he nips her bottom lip, soothes the sting with his tongue, “that I am a gentleman?” He plunders her mouth, stroking her tongue tasting her, leaving her feeling very much like she was in the middle of a storm. One of his hands moves to the back of her neck, holding her fast, while the other strokes down her sides, toying with her breasts till her nipples are hard and ache where they rasp against the cloth of her bra, before sliding into the waistband of the skinny jeans she’s wearing.

The moan he lets out when he discovers how wet she is rumbles through her. “So wet,” he murmurs, in an awed kind of disbelief. He strokes her cleft through her underwear, letting his finger press against her clit for just a heartbeat.

“Solas,” she whimpers, grinding against that finger that is slowly becoming the center of her world, “we have to be quick. Minaeve will wonder where I am.”

He  _ hmms _ , the sound both thoughtful and a pout, but he pulls his hand away and guides her to the mirror, turning her to face it, placing her hands on the sink. She feels the ceramic, cold and smooth, sees the way her cheeks are flushed and the dark, hazy look in her eyes. Her lips are kiss-swollen, there’s a reddened mark peeking out from under the collar of her shirt. Behind her is Solas, looking very like the animal he shares a name with, dressed in a black cable-knit sweater, his eyes bright and so eager, so hungry.

“Watch,” he whispers into her ear, and she’s entranced. She can feel him unbutton her jeans, pull them down, along with her damp panties, to her knees, watches as he shifts into place behind her. She sees the way her eyes widen and her mouth opens in a loud gasp when his fingers slide up and down her slit, sees the way the red on across her cheeks deepens and spreads to her ears and neck. His fingers are stroking her clit, first slow and hard, then fast and light, and her hands are gripping the sink so hard she thinks she hears it groan. 

Her mouth hangs open in a wordless cry when he dips his fingers into her opening. She squeezes her eyes shut even as she rocks back against him in an attempt to get him to press them deeper into her, breath hitched in a desperate sob when he moves them away entirely instead.

“Watch,” he says again a little louder, a little more demanding, and Thalia forces her eyes open. She doesn’t recognize the woman in the mirror, the red-faced, panting woman whose once-neat hair is now in disarray, whose eyes shine with desperate lust, whose swollen mouth is slack-jawed, and  _ Creators _ is it  _ her _ making those shaky, whiny mewls?

There’s the soft  _ viiip  _ of a zipper being undone, the quiet rasp of cloth being shifted, and then the head of his cock is brushing up against her, the head bumping into her clit, and Thalia all but stops breathing as she waits for that slow, glorious stretch when he presses into her-

Instead she shouts, teeth exposed, nostrils flaring, brow creased, the air forced out of her, when his cock hilts into her in a hard slam. Bent over the sink the way she is, her legs pressed together, he’s pressed up even more snugly against her walls, and she could swear she can feel her pulse in that one spot within her, the one his cock is pressed up so well against. Pleasure pours into her, molten and heavy, and there’s a little too much white in her eyes and a little too much teeth when she moans. It’s all so much, too much, the way she’s so full, the way the heat from his body is sliding over her back, the way her toes are clenched in her sneakers, the way Solas’ jaw is gritted taut as he tries to ground himself. She can’t take her gaze off the mirror. 

She’s being fucked in the bathroom of her store.

She’s being fucked, in the bathroom of her store, by the Dread Wolf.

She’s being fucked, in the bathroom of her store, by the Dread Wolf, and she wants- “ _ More _ ,” she begs his reflection in the mirror. “Please, more.”

His left hand covers hers, and his right goes between her legs, where he takes her clit between two long, graceful fingers and fondles it with a third equally, if not more, graceful digit. The ache, the throb, the pulse of her cunt is maddening now, that deliciously luscious, decadently addictive pleasure building up rapidly everywhere from her scalp to her nailbeds and she grinds against his hand and meets his thrusts with her own, and all the while she watches her face grow tighter and more tense and more desperate and her eyes grow narrower and more slitted until her vision is obscured by her lashes but  _ she still keeps looking _ , still watches her lover grow as eager as she was, as needy, his gaze never leaving hers in the mirror, his eyes appearing to glow a bright silver in the muted light of the room, watched the way he sucks in a shaky breath between his gritted teeth, the tendons on his neck so sharply pronounced-

His hand leaves hers and moved to grip her hair, and he yanks her head back away from the mirror towards his face and then he slakes his mouth across hers, the press of his lips against hers nothing short of perfection, and he strums his fingers across her clit; she screams her climax into his mouth, the pleasure of it an explosion that leaves her whole body shuddering and on the brink of collapse.

Dimly, she registers him exhaling a deep, strained grunt, feels him spend into her. Eyes closed, Thalia leans back and rests her head against Solas’ chest. He wraps his arm around her stomach, fits his head to lie atop hers. They stay like that for several moments, coming down from their high.

There’s a rap on the door.

“I hope you guys are done in there, ‘cause there’s someone from King Alistair’s court here to pick up his order. And no, you weren’t as quiet as you thought you were,” Minaeve’s very put-upon voice drifts in.

Thalia should be upset, should be mortified, but something about her situation strikes her as hilarious, and she starts to laugh. “Shit,” she giggles as she cleans the spend from between her legs, “I shouldn’t be laughing, if the royal envoy figures out what just happened it’ll be terrible for business-”

“It will be fine,” Solas soothes, helping her smooth down her hair and straightening out her shirt. 

Desperate times call for desperate measures, so she sprays the air freshener over them both in an attempt to cover up the smell of sex that lingers. Solas wrinkles his nose at the excessively artificial floral scent. “Was that necessary?” he complains.

“Unfortunately, yes,” she checks herself in the mirror- and flushes, because she’s hit with memories of what they’ve just done. Groaning, she spins to face him. “Wait here, okay?” she hisses. “I’ll knock on the door when the coast is clear.”

Solas nods. Straightening her shoulders, Thalia steps out of the bathroom, surreptitiously grabbing a mop from the broom closet before making her way to the front of the store. There’s a man standing by the counter, glancing impatiently at his watch. When he catches sight of her, he barks, “At last! I’m here to pick up-”

“The cheese danishes, yes,” she smiles widely, her customer-service skills kicking in. “They’re ready, let me just wash up a little and I’ll grab them for you.”

He sniffs. The sound isn’t as disdainful as he likely meant it to be. “Don’t you have people to clean for you?”

“We’re a small business,” she calls over her shoulder as she suds herself up to her elbows. “That means we have to do everything ourselves.” Drying her hands on a kitchen towel, she heads to the fridge and pulls out the cooler bag that had been provided. “Here you go,” she smiles, sliding it across the counter towards him. “It’s been paid for, the receipt is in the bag. Would you like some tea before you leave?”

“No, thank you.” He opens the bag, checks to make sure everything is in order, then signs a form acknowledging the transaction and hands it to her. “Have a good day.”

“Happy First Day!”

“And to you, miss.” 

She waits till he’s out of sight before she runs to the bathroom door and knocks on it. Solas opens it immediately. “Are you okay?”

He laughs. “Why would I not be?”

“I don’t know.” She wrings her hands together. “Oh,  _ creators _ , I don’t know how I’m going to face Minaeve-” The embarrassment finally kicks in.  _ Creators _ , Minaeve knew she had sex in the bathroom - in the  _ men’s _ bathroom! She’s never done anything like that before! “Oh, this is bad, she’s never going to let me hear the end of it-”

Solas cups her face between his hands. “Lia, it’ll be fine. She’s your friend. She might make fun of you, but she won’t judge you,  _ ma lath _ . If anything, this was my fault-”

“No,” she discounts it immediately, “it wasn’t. Don’t say that.”

He kisses the tip of her nose. “Why don’t we face her together?” Picking up his laptop and jacket from the table, they head into the kitchen. Minaeve’s got her back to them, busy kneading the dough that will form the pie crusts.

“Min?” Thalia calls out hesitatingly. 

“You should go home.” Min’s voice is- there’s something there that she can’t quite decipher.

She’s grateful for the hand Solas has on her shoulder. “I- I don’t know what to say, but I- I’m sor-”

“Stop.” Minaeve whirls around, one hand on her hip, the other wielding the rolling pin like a weapon. “Andraste’s tits, don’t apologize. Do you think I’m mad at you for-” she waves the rolling pin from side to side gesturing at the two of them, “doing  _ that _ ?”

“Ummm-”

“I’m not. Maker, Lia, do I look like some kind of prude?” Min’s brows are scrunched together, her lips thinned out in annoyance. 

“It was my fault-” Solas begins.

“Yes, it was,” the frown doesn’t leave Min’s face as she waggles the rolling pin at the Dread Wolf, but Thalia can see that her eyes are bright with suppressed laughter. “You are a bad, naughty-” she gives up all pretense of seriousness and bursts into laughter. “Maker’s sacred balls,” she chortles, “I never thought I’d see a day where Lia has sex in a bathroom!”

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” Thalia’s voice is as sour as her expression.

“Oh, I will,” Minaeve presses a hand to her chest as her laughter comes to a halt. “You know I’m going to use this all the time now, right?”

Thalia groans. “I expect no less.”

“Good.” Her assistant turns to Solas. “Alright, Dread Wolf, you’ve clearly got plans for my boss that don’t involve baking, so why don’t you take her home while I finish up here?”

“Min, no,” she protests, flushing pink.

“It’s fine,” Minaeve waves her away dismissively. “The two biggest orders have been collected, I’ve just packed up the de Fer requisition, and I’ve baked enough pies to handle the standalone orders. I’ve got this.”

“Are you sure?” she feels bad about letting Min do all the work, but she  _ really _ wants the chance to spend First Day Eve with Solas.

“Wouldn’t make the offer if I wasn’t. Now you can either get out of here, or you can start dicing the fruit - the choice is yours.”

Thalia doesn’t need to be told twice. Laughing, she undoes the tie of her apron, and throws it carelessly onto the chair in the corner. “I’m going, I’m going.” She hooks her arm into Solas’ elbow, and looks up at him, the widest, sunniest smile on her still-pink cheeks. “Shall we, _ monsieur _ ?”

His eyes are so soft and so gentle, it makes her chest ache. “For you,  _ madame _ ? Always.”

They make a quick detour to her apartment so she can get a change of clothes before they leave for his place. Solas is careful to park his car- well, it’s not  _ his _ car, he’s borrowed Fel’s sedan again- in the midst of several others so as to not draw attention to it - or them. 

Inside, she packs a duffel bag with a speed and efficiency borne of practice, unable to help the small pang that besieges her at the fact that she has to hide her involvement with him- but he wraps his arms around her, and pulls her down to her bed, and she laughs and laughs as he tickles her mercilessly, his grin so bright as he looks down on her.

_ This is fine _ , she thinks, as she follows him down the stairs. He’s got his fingers twined with hers, his other hand holding her bag. He pauses in front of the main door, looks back at her with a brilliant smile, and raises her hand to his lips. “ _ Ar lath ma _ ,” he says quietly.

Her heart blooms like the Hinterlands in spring. “ _ Vhenan’ara _ ,” she cradles his jaw with her hand, strokes his cheek with her thumb. “You are the sun in my sky.”

His face turns impossibly soft, that ever-present look of shy disbelief lurking in the crinkled corners of his lips. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he kisses her again, slow, soft, sweet. She melts into him with a quiet, happy sigh. Their foreheads press for the span of several heartbeats before they pull apart, and step out of the door.

A brilliant white flash goes off in her face, and she can only blink in an attempt to regain her vision.

“ _ Fenedhis _ ,” she hears Solas swear viciously. “They’ve found us.”

“Who?” she tries to ask as he quickly guides her into the passenger seat of his car. There are several more flashes before the vehicle finally leaves the curb. Thalia looks at him - his jaw is taut, his brow hangs low and menacingly over his eyes, and his nostrils are flaring. His grip on the steering wheel is so tight, she fears he’s going to break his fingers. He’s going too fast, the numbers on the speedometer rising faster than she’s ever seen.

And then she knows.

“It was the paparazzi, wasn’t it?” she asks quietly, her stomach giving way to a deep, yawning pit of fear. “They have our picture.”

Solas is still furious as he gives her the barest of nods.

“ _ Creators _ ,” she whispers, terror trickling down her throat and flooding her lungs. “What’s going to happen now?”

He sighs. He glances at her for a quick second, then turns his gaze back to the road. “I don’t know,” he admits, anger and concern and frustration lending his usually even voice an unusual rasp. He looks at her, the corners of his eyes creased with worry. “We can figure this out.”

“Can we?” she whispers through suddenly-numb lips.

Solas doesn’t reply.


	11. Chapter 11

“You tell my father,” her tone is low and deliberate, and she’s trying so, so hard to keep the rage tamped down because she doesn’t want to unleash it on someone who doesn’t deserve it, “that I have proof of how he’s not been in contact with me for seven years - not to mention all the shit he’s pulled - and if he even  _ thinks _ about talking to the press again, I  _ will _ sue him for defamation. And then I’ll sue him again for all the child support he’s never paid, seeing as he’s now claiming to be a  _ proud father _ .” She scoffs, and the sound is harsh and bitter.

“I have the cease-and-desist letter ready to go,” Dorian’s brisk and precise as he tells her what her options are. “Varric’s using his contacts to figure out who the leak was.”

“Felassan thinks the leak came from Solas’ side, but I can’t imagine how.”

“I suppose we’ll learn in time. How’s the bakery doing?”

Thalia runs her free hand through her hair. “Terrible,” she slumps deeper into the crushed-velvet covered chair in the kitchen, tilts her head to rest on the high back. The softness of the material does little to soothe her agitated nerves. “There’s a line outside the front  _ and _ back doors, but they’re not customers. I can’t even take the trash out for fear of being jumped by a horde of reporters. At this point, it’s really rude that they take up all that space and not even buy anything from me, you know?” She chuckles, but the sound is thick with the tears she’s trying desperately not to shed. “It’s been  _ three months _ , Dorian. Why haven’t they gotten bored yet?”

“You’re a mystery to them,” he says matter-of-factly. “You don’t have a scandalous past, you don’t come from any kind of money, you’re not well-connected or have any kind of social presence - and so  _ everyone _ wants to know how it is that someone - and I’m quoting this, this is decidedly not my opinion - they want to know how someone so unremarkable managed to catch the attention of Thedas’ most eligible bachelor.”

“Is that why women seem to hate me now?”

“Oh, definitely.” She tries so hard to cover it, clapping her hand over her mouth, but the stifled sob slips out anyway. “Oh,  _ amica _ ,” Dorian’s sympathy is too much, and the floodgates open. “I am so sorry you’re going through this.”

“If it weren’t for Bull and the Chargers,” she hiccups, “I don’t think I’d be able to run the bakery. It’s like everyone who comes in wants to gawk at me, you know? Min’s working the front of the house, but there are still people who try to slip past her to get into the kitchen. I’ve had to change my number three times already, and that’s my personal phone - I can’t change the bakery’s number, it’d be bad for business, but how do I get people to stop calling and asking for interviews, or worse, screaming obscenities at me? What did I ever do to them, Dorian?” 

“Have you told Solas about the threats?”

“Yes, he’s dealing with them.  _ Creators _ , Dorian, I’ve had to file half a dozen restraining orders against people I’ve _ never met _ . And as much as I like staying with Solas, I miss my apartment. You know people have tried to  _ break in _ ?”

“Bull mentioned it, yes.”

“Isn’t that just insane? And all these people crawling out of the woodwork, people I haven’t spoken to in over a decade, painting an  _ entirely inaccurate _ picture of me, and I- I can’t even  _ defend _ myself-” she chokes out. “I don’t  _ understand _ … I knew it would be bad if the press ever found out, but I never imagined  _ this… _ ” A loud, wet, gasping sort of sob leaves her lungs. “ _ Mamae _ ’s had to take leave because of all the attention she’s getting. Sahren’s had to work from home.  _ Creators _ , Dorian, it would be one thing if I was the only one suffering, but my family too? I can’t bear it!”

“Gallea’s a strong woman, Lia. She can take care of herself. She’s doing really well - did you see the way she told off that reporter who showed up at her doorstep?”

“She shouldn’t have had to do it,” Thalia’s breath catches in a convulsive gasp. “I just… I want… all of this wouldn’t be so bad if I could spend time with Solas, but he’s been so busy of late, dealing with this and some crisis at work. I see so little of him, even though I’m in his home! He comes home so late, and I have to leave early and it’s like… I feel so  _ alone _ , Dorian.”

“Thalia… have you told him how you feel?”

She sniffles, but it does nothing to clear her blocked nose. “No,” she confesses in a small voice, toying with the frayed threads at the corners of the cushion she’s sitting on. “He’s already got so much on his plate, what with problems at work and trying to figure out the source of the leak, I don’t want to add to it, you know? And… truth be told… I… I don’t want to tell him. I can’t show him I’m  _ weak _ , Dorian, don’t you see? I just… I need to learn how to handle this, on my own. I can’t- I can’t go running to him for every problem. Solas- he- he has to deal with this  _ constantly _ , and he- he’s so poised. So capable. Nothing seems to faze him, ever, he just- he’s so  _ strong _ , and if- if I tell him- he’ll think I’m weak. If… if our relationship is to survive, I’m… I’m going to have to learn how to handle these things, right? How to deal with the media and unwanted attention and stuff, even… even if it- if it  _ unnerves _ me...” She starts to cry again, an ache in the pit of her stomach. “I’m  _ terrified _ . I- I always knew we lived in different worlds, but with all this-” Her shoulders shake, and for several moments she can’t speak for the fear in her throat. “Does this mean we’re not supposed to be together, Dorian? That we’re not- that we shouldn’t-” she whispers through her hiccups. 

“Of course not,  _ amica _ .” Dorian’s voice is soft, gentle. “I’ve seen the two of you together. He clearly cares about you. Mythal herself was remarking the other day that she hasn’t seen Fen’harel smile so much in a very long time.”

She’s not convinced. Insecurity eats away at her mind, corrodes her chest. She bursts out, near-hysterical, “I keep thinking, over and over, that- that he deserves someone better. Someone who can handle all the attention and with more… elegance. I mean… just look at me! Breaking down at the first sign of trouble, instead of being stronger- even though I  _ knew _ that someday, sometime, I’d end up in the spotlight! Honestly, I don’t know how you deal with the attention you get-”

“Lia, I can handle the occasional ignominy because I also experience the benefits of fame. You, my dear, have all the downsides and none of the positives. It’s common for people in your position take a period of time off and lie low, ideally somewhere out of the country-”

“Yeah, well, I can’t afford to do that,” she mutters. Her eyes are sore, but the thought of her financials is enough to cause fresh tears to spill from her eyes. She drags the sleeve of her shirt to wipe them away, uncaring of the black streaks her mascara leaves behind on them.

“That bad?” Dorian’s voice is lowered, hushed, and has quite a bit of concern in it.

She exhales, slow and shaky. “Between the new security measures I’ve had to install at the apartment and the bakery, the fact that all the attention has turned off the more regular of my customers… means more expenses and fewer sales. I’m not in any trouble yet, but if this continues I’ll have to start dipping harder into my savings.”

“You know Bull would be only too happy to-”

“No, Dorian. He’s already given me a pretty nice discount. I’m not going to take advantage of him and ask him to work for free.”

There’s a long pause. “Have you considered,” he asks cautiously, “asking Solas for help?”

“Absolutely not,” she all but growls into the speaker.

“Considering you’re in this position because of him, I’d say it’s only fair he-”

“I said  _ no _ , Dorian. I’m already failing at dealing with all this… attention. The last thing I’m going to do is to become the conniving gold-digger the press is making me out to be!”

Dorian exhales. The sound carries several degrees of frustration. “You’re not an opportunist, Thalia. Is there anything I can do to help? You know I’m only too happy to lend you-”

“Dorian, don’t. Please. You know how I feel about- you know.”

He sighs. Thalia can feel the worry and concern in the brief silence that follows, and it makes her feel even more fragile, like a sodden piece of paper. “As you wish, my dear.” He sums up the details of what they’ve discussed, about the cease-and-desist letter to her father and the short statement she’s prepared for the press. She feels abraded, raw, like there are maggots crawling over her skin when he reminds her of the interview request Varric has made - it’s one that everyone around her thinks is a good idea. “You know Varric, and he knows you,  _ amica _ . He’ll run a clean, fair article, give you some good, positive press. And… well, you know I hate to say this, but you  _ could _ use it. It might take some attention off you.”

She exhales wearily. “I’ll give him a call tomorrow.”

“It’ll be good for you, I promise. And if you want some support, you know I’ll be more than happy to accompany you to the interview.” There’s a pause. “For what it’s worth, Thalia,” he’s incredibly somber now, “I think you should talk to Solas. Tell him how you feel, what the bakery’s going through, everything. You don’t have to ask him for help, but… he cares about you. Don’t you think he’d want to know?”

Thalia shakes her head, the phone pressed to her ear. Dorian doesn’t understand, and she can’t - won’t - tell him that she’s a coward. That she doesn’t want to tell Solas, because if she does... he might think less of her. He might leave her. And... she can’t bear the thought of that. She loves him. Solas is the only thing that’s keeping her going through all this mess. “I’ll think about it.”

“Do that. And- Lia, you’re not alone, okay? We’re there for you the moment you need us. You know Bull and I are only a phone call away.”

She smiles, a small half-lift that makes her lips wobble. “I know. Thanks, Dorian.”

* * *

Solas disconnects the call with a firm press of his fingers to the high-sensitivity touchscreen, and places the phone, glass side down, onto the table. For a moment he stares out of his window, eyes distractedly taking in the clear blue sky with the wispy streaks of light grey clouds spread across it.

“Bad news?” Felassan asks quietly.

“Nothing that I did not anticipate. But I was not able to sway Lord Trevelyan’s mind.”

“What does he want?”

“Unrestricted access to the Brecilian ruins,” Solas sighs and rolls his shoulders. They ache, a dulled pain that doesn’t seem to go away, no matter what he does. “Which would not be an issue, except Dirthamen is currently studying and cataloging those same ruins. He will be incensed at any unwanted presence. He barely tolerates Falon’din accompanying him as it is.”

“Is retrieving the Well so important?”

“Yes,” he stands and walks over to the side table, turns the small silver kettle on. He loathes the stuff, but if he’s going to get through the day, he will need some tea. “The Well is an ancient elven artifact. More importantly, it is what I need in order to gain June’s assistance in restoring the temple of Solasan.”

“Why would a human have any interest in elven ruins? He can’t be hoping to raid it; surely he’s smart enough to know that our people would have removed everything of value from it. So where’s this request coming from?” Felassan frowns, one finger idly scratching his chin.

“Lord Trevelyan is currently in the midst of trade talks with the Marquise of the Dales. Briala has been attempting to claim an eluvian for herself ever since I seized the ones she had. I’m certain that Maximillan Trevelyan only wants the access as a bargaining chip for his dealings with Briala.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “ _ Elgar’enaste _ , this is a nightmare. Why must doing my job involve so much strategizing?”

Felassan clears his throat. “Not to add to your woes, but I’ve received another email from Ser Tethras about the possibility of you and Thalia doing a joint interview about your relationship-”

Solas raises his hand, having lost all interest at the mere mention of an interview. “Not now. I have more important things on my mind.”

“But I think it’s a good idea-”

“I said, not now.” Solas pours the hot water into the delicate china cup, watching as the tea leaves turn the water a rich brown. The scent of herbs fills the air, doing little to soothe his frazzled nerves.

“She’s having a hard time with the attention,” Felassan stands a few feet away from him. His eyes are filled with concern. “You know as well as I do that Thalia isn’t used to dealing with the press.”

Solas says nothing as he stirs in the honey. He hasn’t had the chance to spend much time with Thalia the past few weeks - ever since someone attempted to break into her apartment and he moved her into his place for her safety. There’s a coil of guilt in his stomach, guilt that he hasn’t been able to protect her, that he’s failed her - and that he’s still failing her. There’s also some frustration, a tiny bit of annoyance that she hasn’t said anything to him about her feelings. Doesn’t she trust him? “Why hasn’t she mentioned it to me?”

“She knows you’re busy, she probably thinks she’ll be a burden on you. Thalia’s… well, you know her, she has a hard time asking for help.”

Solas does know. And it just makes him all the more vexed. Surely she knows that he thinks and sees her as his equal in every way? She knows he loves her… doesn’t she? What could he have possibly done to give her the impression that she would be a burden? If anything, he is to blame for the troubles she’s facing. 

It makes him jittery, to think of her suffering in silence, and yet, with so much on his plate, he doesn’t have the luxury of time to simply stop and show her how much he cares for her. But he has to do something... “I’ll think about the interview,” he sighs, taking a sip of the tea and wrinkling his nose in distaste. No matter how much honey he adds, he’s never able to fully mask the bitterness of the brew. “It will have to wait for the moment, however. I need to complete this deal with Lord Trevelyan, and I do not know how long it will take to sway Dirthamen to my side.”

“I’ll inform Ser Tethras that you’re amenable and that you’ll approach him when you have the time in your schedule?”

“Do that, please.”

Felassan’s fingers fly over the screen of the tablet he’s holding as he sends off an email to the renowned author and talk show host. “Anything else?”

“Would you please put together a file on the Vir’Abelasan? I need the location, and possible assets found within the Arbor Wilds, and also any data available on the Well. Make three copies, please, and send one to Mythal along with the latest communique from Lord Trevelyan.”

“When do you need it by?”

“As soon as possible. I intend to meet with Dirthamen after lunch.”

His assistant nods and leaves the room. Solas takes the time to finish the cup of tea, now lukewarm but no less bitter. He places the bone china cup with the gold trim back on the tray and thinks of the adorably misshapen mug that Thalia uses all the time, with its odd lumpy bits and wonky handle. She’s never been inside his office, hasn’t even stepped foot into the building. He looks around the room, at the thick, plush carpet, the priceless antique furniture, the chandelier that’s made from the highest quality Serault crystal. For all the comfort and amenities it has, it’s never made him feel as comfortable as the chaotic, flour-covered surfaces of Thalia’s kitchen.

Solas wants nothing more at that moment than to go to her. To see that clear, bright smile, to feel the touch of her hand on his cheek. They’re living together under the same roof, he sleeps next to her in bed, but he hasn’t truly spent time with her for many weeks, and he misses her fiercely. Misses her banter and her wit and her open, guileless affection-

_ I miss you. _

His phone pings ten seconds after he sends his message. She’s always so prompt in her replies. He has a tiny smile on his face as he stares down at the screen.

_ I miss you too. What are you doing? _

_ I’m-  _ he types in  _ mentally preparing myself for an argument _ , then decides against it. He doesn’t want to worry her.  _ I’m waiting for a report. I have a meeting this afternoon. You? _

The three little dots - the ones that tell him the other person is typing - blink, and blink, and blink some more. But when he gets her message, it’s a short one -  _ Just got off the phone with Dorian. Thinking about lunch. Have you had any? _

Why was she typing for so long? What is she not telling him, and why?

_ I had some tea. It ruined my appetite, sadly. _

_ Tea? Must be one serious meeting. _

He stares at the screen. He should tell her. Tell her how stressed he is, how tired he is of working with people who only want to take, never to give, how it feels like a part of his soul is eaten away each time he interacts with the Evanuris. He should tell her that today is one of those days where he wants nothing more than to quit, to leave all the scheming and manipulating and plotting. That the only thing that keeps him where he is is the thought that people like her - brave, strong, good,  _ kind _ \- would suffer even more if he didn’t.

He cannot. He will not put even more of his burdens on her.  _ Nothing more serious than the usual. I was only concerned that Dirthamen might bore me to sleep, thus the precaution. _

Again, those three dots appear, then vanish. Re-appear, then disappear. Flicker again. Finally, a reply.  _ Good luck. I’ll keep my fingers crossed it all goes well. _ Before he can type anything, she’s typing something else.  _ I have to go now. Baking emergency. I’ll see you at home? _

Even though his heart swells that she’s quick to call his house  _ home _ , Solas still worries. Baking emergency? She’s never had one before. Concern begins to unfurl in his chest, dark with sharp edges. What is going on at the bakery? What isn’t she telling him?

Before he can call Thalia, Felassan walks in, three beige folders in his hands. Exhaling, trying to regain a sense of balance, he instead selects a pre-written message and sends it, like he has far too many times in the past month for his liking:  _ I’ll be late, don’t wait up for me. _

“Here,” Felassan hands him the folders. “It has all the information you wanted. I took the liberty of adding some information about the Ostwick-Dales talks in the Mythal folder.” 

“Thank you,” Solas murmurs, opening the file and skims through the pages. “Yes, this will be helpful. Will you deliver this to Mythal, please? If she’s not in, you can leave it with Abelas.”

Solas waits for Felassan to leave, then makes himself a second cup of tea, drinking the hot liquid without flinching. He goes over to his desk, unwraps a peppermint, and pops it into his mouth. The flavor bursts across his tongue, flooding his mouth and sinuses, and he uses the sensation to prepare himself, mentally and emotionally, for the encounter he’s certain will be unpleasant. It’s a routine: identify the weaknesses in his armor Dirthamen will use against him. Prepare a defense and a counterattack. Choose an item in his possession that he values the least, one that he is willing to part with. Come up with an offer that will appeal to Dirthamen’s ego or his greed, preferably both. 

He wants to go home.

Instead, he squares his shoulders, arranges his face into a neutral mask, and takes the mini-rail to Dirthamen’s office.

Solas' mood drops twenty degrees when he finds Andruil in the open meeting space. Judging by the way she’s sprawled out across a couch, her legs draped over the arm, she’s been here a while. In her hands is- his grip on the folders tightens, and he grits his jaw. She’s reading one of those tabloids, and on the front page is a photo of a very distressed Thalia, her clothes speckled with flour, strands of hair escaping her usually neat bun. A headline loudly proclaims  _ Is Wycome Baker Sleeping With The Dread Wolf To Promote Her Business? _

His blood boils. Of all the things they could accuse her of- she would  _ never _ \- but he’s forced to remain stoic, aware of Andruil’s sneering gaze fixed on his face. “Well, well, well,” she snickers, lips twisted into a cruel smile. “Who would have suspected that the Dread Wolf has a taste for…  _ trash _ ?”

“ _ On dhea’him _ , Andruil.  _ Nuvenan ma son _ ?” he raises the corner of his lips just the slightest fraction. Any more, and it will give her ideas. Any less, and it will offend her.

She flicks her fingers dismissively. “ _ Nuvenan ma tas son _ ,” she grunts, looking as though it pained her to return the greeting. Solas suppresses a smile - he’s certain that she wants to be rude, but a polite greeting must be returned as such. The consequences of not doing so are grave, even by the Evanuris own standards. “As you can see, I’ve been reading the most  _ interesting _ little article.”

“I am glad you find enjoyment in your little hobbies.”

She scoffs, her mouth forming a snarl at the not-so-subtle insult. “Even  _ this _ -” she shakes the magazine. The pages rustle, “has more substance than that little… what  _ was _ she?” Andruil makes a show of turning the pages, uses her finger to trace the words. “Ah, yes. A  _ baker _ . The kind that’s all poor decisions and fleeting taste, yes? Certainly not what anyone in their right mind would prefer for a hearty meal,” Andruil purrs and licks her lips.

“A meal cannot be called one without the staple that is bread,” he responds evenly.

Andruil laughs. It’s an unnerving sound. “Your little harlot is barely fit to wipe the dust off my shoes, Fen’harel. I always thought your eccentric tastes a, shall we say,  _ quaint _ sort of rebellion, but this?” She shakes her head in mock sympathy. “This just tells me your feeble mind is quite addled. After all, who turns down a literal  _ goddess _ for,” her nose wrinkles in disgust, and she pretends to gag, “a  _ nobody _ ?”

“Come now,” Solas almost turns and leaves at the sound of Falon’din’s voice. “She’s not a bad-looking piece, Andruil. Surely even  _ you _ would enjoy having that delectable morsel in your bed for a few nights.”

Andruil laughs and examines the picture once more. “I would have to have her thoroughly scrubbed down with disinfectant. But yes, I suppose I  _ would _ relish having a taste. Tell me, Fen’harel, given that she works with so much sugar, does her cunt drip syrup?” Andruil sticks her tongue out and makes an obscene licking motion at him.

“Look at those lips,” Falon’din bends over Andruil’s shoulder to look at the page. “Do you think my cock would fit between them?”

“If she can swallow the Dread Wolf’s dick, I think she would struggle with yours, Lethanavir.”

“Mmm. That sounds wonderful. I bet she’ll choke so prettily. Fen’harel, do me a favor, will you? When you’re done with that little baker girl, send her over to me. I would so love to take a nice bite out of her,” Falon’din laughs, his dark, beady eyes shining malevolently.

“ _ On dhea’him, _ Falon’din,” Solas doesn’t bother looking at the other Evanuri, knowing that it will infuriate him. He’s seething inside, enraged by the way the two are mocking and abusing Thalia. He knows they’re baiting him, goading him, and if he reacts, he will paint a bigger target on her back. “Were you here to talk to Dirthamen about the Virhalla Grove? It is such a wonderful property, you must be enjoying it greatly.”

“The Virhalla Grove?” Andruil shifts, sitting up straight. Her heels click as they hit the floor. Solas notes with an inward smirk that the magazine lies on the floor, forgotten. “ _ You _ got the Virhalla Grove?” she screeches, jerking a finger in Falon’din’s direction.

“Of course,” Falon’din looks bored. 

“ _ Fenedhis lasa! _ You knew that I wanted that place as a gift for Ghila’nain! You showed no interest in it earlier!

Falon’din rolls his eyes and examines his nails. “When I heard it had hot springs in the mountains, I knew I had to have it. Besides, you’re one to talk, Andruil. You took the  _ Druast’genise _ when I clearly wanted it.”

“ _ Dhava’ma masa! _ You always get everything-” 

Leaving the two to bicker, Solas moved towards Dirthamen’s office, chuckling quietly under his breath. They were so easy to distract.

In the end, it only takes reminding Dirthamen of the many favors Solas has done for him, along with dangling the possibility of investigating the true potential of the  _ Vir’Abelasan _ , and Dirthamen is willing to allow Lord Trevelyan - and a limited number of guests - into the Brecilian ruins. Solas returns to his office exhausted, grateful that neither Andruil nor Falon’din had been present when his meeting was over. Even so, he has a headache, the kind that has his skull throbbing and his brain feeling like it’s being hammered by a thousand dwarves armed with silverite pickaxes. He rifles through his drawers, taking out a small white bottle, and shakes out two small blue tablets onto his palm. He doesn’t even bother with water to swallow them down.

He stares out of his windows. The moon is a curved gash of light in the inky sky. The stars blink at him, and it feels like a reproach. He should be at home, they seem to say. He checks his watch. If he leaves now, he might be able to catch Thalia before she goes to bed, spend some time with her. Solas runs a hand over his scalp, the rough stubble that’s just growing in prickling his skin. He  _ could _ go home, but there are still so many minor details he has to hammer out before he can make a counteroffer to Lord Trevelyan. Maybe he can afford to take fifteen minutes to look over some documents... 

By the time he gets to his house, it’s past midnight, and most of the lights are out. His stomach churns with guilt as he makes his way up the stairs to the bedroom. Thalia’s fast asleep, her curled up form so small and lonely in the bed. Her eyes are sunken, with dark circles around them, and there’s an unhappy little curve to her mouth. 

His headache returns, worse than before. Solas sits on the edge of the bed and stares at her, wondering, not for the first time, if he’s doing the right thing. It would be kinder, in the long run... 

She sighs, shifts so she’s closer to him, so that her body is pressed up against his hip and thigh.

It might be kinder, but Solas has always known, ever since he first spoke with her, that she was his weakness - and now he knows too that when it comes to her, his selfishness knows no bounds. He gingerly pushes away the stray strand of hair that’s fallen across her lips, his mouth twisting into a bitter half-smile when she sighs at the touch. 

_ Forgive me, _ he thinks as he lies next to her. He shifts to carefully gather her up in his arms, and falls asleep to her scent. 


	12. Chapter 12

The meeting is dull and dry to the point of dessication. Solas usually feigns interest and nods along at the appropriate times to Elgar’nan’s speeches, but today he’s having trouble concentrating. Thalia has received multiple threats to both her life and her work, and while the death threats seem exaggerated, the investigator he’s hired - a discreet former Crow called Zevran - thinks that the leak came not only from his office, but from someone who’s close to him.

He really, really doesn’t want to believe it’s Felassan.

Solas shifts in his leather chair, leaning forward so he can steeple his fingers on the table. It seems to be the wrong thing to have done at that moment. Elgar’nan raises a brow, a momentary look of irritation flashing across his face. “Yes, Fen’harel?” he asks. “Did you have something to say about my plans for Iska’s Ruins?”

There’s a second of panic as Solas scrambles to recall what the head of the Evanuris had been talking about. Iska’s Ruins... those were the ruins in the Western Approach. Elgar’nan had wanted to dig around the area in the hopes of locating groundwater. If he found groundwater, then Iska’s Ruins would be turned into a getaway vacation spot for those who wished for a desert experience -  _ without _ the pesky sand that was usually involved.

Of course, Elgar’nan had no cares about the fact that groundwater was not meant to be used in such a manner, and that doing so would have drastic negative consequences for the land.

So if he was talking about his plans for Iska’s Ruins, then his workers must have discovered groundwater.  _ Fenedhis _ . “Your plans are impeccable,” Solas tilted his head to the side a fraction. “I only wondered about the potability of the groundwater. The land is Blight-ravaged, after all. It would not do for guests to fall ill.”

Elgar’nan scowls. “It’s groundwater. We can call it  _ naturally filtered _ and no one will care.”

“If even one person falls ill... the press will speculate.”

“I can handle the press, Fen’harel, though I will note it’s becoming increasingly apparent to the rest of us that you are struggling. Perhaps you should be more concerned about dealing with all the attention the press is giving you and your-” Elgar’nan curls his lip in obvious disgust, “woman.”

Solas presses his foot hard against the carpeted floor, using the pressure to ground him. “Ah yes, the press. So very speculative, are they not? We can only hope they do not believe you to be in a relationship with Iska, on account of you restoring her ruins.” There are stifled snickers from around the table; Sylaise and Dirthamen, he thinks, and he can recognize Mythal’s little amused snort.

Elgar’nan glowers at him. Once - a very, very long time ago indeed - it would have caused him disquiet. But Solas knows the self-proclaimed Eldest of the Sun - whatever  _ that _ means - and knows that the man is more bluster than brawl. “Moving on,” he waves a hand dismissively, “I wish to know about the latest progress with the Vir’Abelasan. Make your report, Fen’harel.”

Taking a deep breath, he opens the leather binder that contains all his notes. “There was a minor issue that stalled Lord Trevelyan, but it has since been resolved-: he explains the situation, the talks between Ostwick and Orlais, and how he’d managed to get all parties involved to come to an agreement. Just as he’d finished, Dirthamen shifts forward, casually resting an elbow on the mahogany meeting table. “Actually, Fen’harel,” his tone is inscrutable, “there has been yet another issue.”

“Oh?” he replies, but there’s a mild twisting in his stomach.

“Yes. I’ve discovered that Lord Trevelyan is in talks with a third party over the purchase of the Vir’Abelasan. Someone by the name of Calpernia, my sources tell me.”

His guts churn for a long, unpleasant moment before dropping into the void where his stomach was. “Someone else is interested in the Well?” It's a testament to how much control he has over himself that his voice belays none of the shock he’s feeling. 

“Yes,” Mythal is as calm and poised as she always is. “We spoke about this a few days ago, did we not? How quickly things slip your mind, Fen’harel,” she smiles, and he’s grateful for the attempt to take the heat off him, even though he doesn’t think it will be successful. Solas doesn’t miss the split-second flash of sharp anger in her eyes when she addresses her son, “Why don’t you bring everyone else up to date, Dirthamen?”

“I’d rather not step on Fen’harel’s toes,” the raven-haired man taps his fingers against the table, “this  _ is  _ his project after all. Unless,” he directs a sly look at Solas, “his mind is so filled with all the, ahh,  _ personal issues _ he’s been having that he doesn’t remember the details of his work?”

“I thought this was a work meeting? If we are going to talk about personal matters then I would very much like you to address the rumors that you’ve impregnated an Avvar woman, Dirthamen. I hope for the sake of your relationship with Lethanavir that-”

“Those are baseless lies!” Dirthamen hisses, every visible inch of him rigid.

Elgar’nan sighs and thumps his fist on the table. “Enough!” he grounds out. “Fen’harel, what do you intend to do about this problem?”

Solas clenches his jaw. “I will rectify this immediately, of course. Whoever this Calpernia is, their claim to the Well is shaky at best.”

“Given that you’ve been so preoccupied lately, Fen’harel, why don’t I have my assistant send you a dossier of all the information  _ I’ve _ collected on what was supposed to be  _ your _ job?” Dirthamen smiles silkily, having regained his composure.

He’s been cornered, and he knows it. If he doesn’t accept the information, well - he’ll waste valuable time in gathering up his own data, time that he could use instead to fix the matter. If he accepts the information… it is tantamount to loudly proclaiming that he has failed.

Fucking Dirthamen. Solas vows to himself he will never lift a finger in to assist the other man ever again. But he’s got no choice but to swallow his pride. It nearly chokes him, catches in the corners of his lungs, makes him want to snarl and bite off the other man’s face. 

He does neither, only quirks his brow upwards to give the Evanuri a half-amused, half-incredulous look, as though the other man has made a joke he doesn’t find funny. “More information is always welcome. I’ll send my assistant over to collect the folder, Dirthamen. Your assistance is appreciated.”

“I hope this hapless period of yours blows over quickly,” Dirthamen has the smallest, smuggest grin on the edges of his too-thin lips. “As much as I would like to, I can’t keep picking up your slack.”

Solas ignores the man, instead giving Mythal a small, brief nod at the older woman’s look of concern.

The meeting ends with no other unpleasant surprises, but as Solas is about to leave the room, he’s stopped by Elgar’nan. “Fen’harel. A moment, if you will?” He waits for the others to leave before shutting the door, leaving him alone with the head of the Evanuris.

The older man walks over to the trolley nearby and pours out whiskey into two glasses. Solas accepts the proffered glass, taking a small, cautious sip. He says nothing, waiting for the Elgar’nan to break the silence.

“You have been quite distracted of late,” he begins, and Solas briefly shuts his eyes and swallows the sigh in his throat. “Your work, if controversial, has always been impeccable, and so I have been able to look past the more troublesome of your decisions, but this situation with the Vir’Abelasan,” Elgar’nan shakes his head. There’s so much product in his hair the tresses that flow past his collar wobble. “You know how much it means to Mythal, do you not?”

Solas is aware that Mythal’s interest in the Well is personal, which is why he’s been working so hard on the project. So there’s a little bite in his tone when he replies, “Of course.”

“I certainly hope so.” Elgar’nan swallows a large mouthful of the amber liquid, smacking his lips in pleasure. “Now, I wanted to talk about this- this-  _ dalliance _ of yours.”

He stiffens. “I beg your pardon?”

“Your relationship with that baker girl, what was her name? Tania? Valya?” He makes a dismissive gesture with his free hand. “Whatever her name is. I hope you know what you’re doing, Fen’harel.”

“I sense you have some objections.”

“Of course I have objections!” Elgar’nan exclaims loudly. “What in the blighted Void are you thinking?”

“My relationships are none of your concern-”

“They are my concern when I find your performance slipping,” he takes another mouthful. “You’ve been distracted the past few months, Fen’harel, and don’t try to say you haven’t, because we both know the truth. You’ve been so occupied with your-” he gesticulates haphazardly, “that you’re failing the people you swore you would help. You were so adamant about having your workers have a good work-life balance, yet the latest financials show that they’re all pulling at least ten hours overtime.  _ Each _ . I would not care if that came out of your pocket, but it does not, and since it affects the bottom line for the company - which I will not jeopardize - I have no choice but to insist that you think twice about this relationship of yours.”

“Excuse me?” He’s so outraged, he can’t think of anything else to say.

“The media has not been kind the past few months, and you know this. A lot more attention is being drawn to the Board, and we are losing business because of it. This would not be the case had you been wiser in your choice of bed partners! Had you aligned yourself with someone with a social status more befitting of one of the Evanuris, then I would not have to wonder why sales across the departments are down. What do you think will happen if the financials continue their downward trend?” Without waiting for Solas to reply, Elgar’nan barrels onward. “We’ll have to start laying people off.  _ Again _ . Is that what you want, Fen’harel? I thought you were determined to protect the workers. From where I’m standing, you’re doing a poor job at something you consider your duty.”

Elgar’nan finishes the last of his whiskey. “Something is going to have to be cut loose. Either your relationship, or your workers. Neither I nor the others are going to pick up the monetary slack for your failings. Do you understand?”

Solas is stiff and rigid as he replies, “You’ve made yourself perfectly clear.” He sets the still-full tumbler on the trolley. “Thank you for the drink, Elgar’nan. If there’s nothing else-?”

Elgar’nan’s already got his back to him. The dismissal is clear.

His mind churns as he makes his way back to his office. Solas knows the threat to his workers is not an idle one. He could rebel and break away, perhaps start his own company, but there would be little chance that he’d be able to keep it afloat. He can’t let down his workers, he swore to himself he’d ensure that they were dealt with fairly, but- but he loves Thalia. She’s one of the few bright spots in his life. How can he let go of her?

He opens his door, stopping in his tracks when he spots Maela behind his desk, clearly rifling through his desk drawers.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asks, his voice razor-sharp. After the day he’s had, he’s practically vibrating with anger, fists clenched at his sides.

Maela yelps, and staggers backwards. “Mr. Fen’harel,  _ ser _ ,” she babbles, a hand on her chest, her eyes darting around in all directions before they land on him. “I was- I needed some supplies, and-”

“You know very well where to find the office supplies, Maela. I’ll ask you this once more, and I suggest honesty this time. What were you doing?”

“I- I- I wasn’t doing anything bad,  _ ser _ , I promise, I only wanted-” she falls silent, her gaze dropping to the floor. 

“Wanted what?” he hisses out through gritted teeth. She lets out a squeak, her eyes wide and scared, her lower lip trembling, and presses herself against the window, clearly trying to make herself look as pathetic as she can, but he isn’t fooled.

“I’m- I’m so sorry Mr. Fen’harel, please, don’t- don’t fire me, please, I just-”

“I’ve asked you twice what you were doing, Ms. Vyanis. I won’t ask again. You’re aware I could have you prosecuted for this breach?”

“I only wanted information on- on  _ her _ ,” his secretary wails, a sudden surge of hatred in her eyes. “It’s not fair! I’ve worked here for  _ so long _ , and I kept trying, and trying, but you wouldn’t  _ see  _ me! I’ve been here every day, and you just- you never- and then somehow you’re  _ with _ someone, but she’s not even- she’s just a baker! What does she have that I don’t! I do so much for you, I care about you so much, Fen’harel! I love you! I love you so much, I’d do  _ anything  _ for you! Can’t you see that? I would be so much better for you-”

“ **_Shut. Up_ ** .” Maela does, her face turning pale at his tone. Her lips and chin start to tremble, and she swallows several times. “I’m not going to dignify that outburst with a response, Ms. Vyanis. Consider yourself fired, effective immediately. I am going to call security-”

“ _ Please, _ Fen’harel-” she begins, her voice high-pitched and shrill. He narrows his eyes, and she falls into silence again. 

“I’m going to call security. You will gather your things, and leave with them. If you even  _ think _ about approaching me, or Ms. Lavellan, or stepping foot into either of our workplaces, I will have you prosecuted so fast your father will barely have time to whip out his checkbook.. Do I make myself clear?”

Maela openly sobs, great fat tears falling from her chin. Her face turns red and blotchy, her mascara leaving streaks on her cheeks. Despite her pitiful appearance Solas cannot dredge up even an iota of sympathy for the woman.

“I love you, Fen’harel,” Maela cries out, over and over, as she’s escorted through the entrance doors. “Why can’t you see that we’re meant to be together?” Solas is glad not many people are around to see her display. It is bad enough that news of this will reach the others by tomorrow. It will give Elgar’nan more ammunition. Solas’ head throbs unpleasantly. 

Maela has one last thing to say as she’s pushed into a waiting cab. “She’s wrong for you! I’ll make you see that, I’ll make everyone see that!”

He paces up and down the length of his office. What is he to do? He can stay with Thalia, and jeopardize his duty, or he can let go of her- he pinches the bridge of his nose. The pain in his head spikes to a sharp peak, then dulls as he wipes a hand down his face. The TV screen at the far end of the room flickers; a well-dressed anchor is talking, but no sound comes out of the speakers, and he is glad for that. A chyron at the bottom of the screen loudly proclaims  _ Trouble in Baker’s Paradise? _ and a picture of Thalia appears. Solas steps closer. She looks so poised, but he knows her better, he’s drawn in by the set of her thinned-out lips, the tension at the edges of her eyes, the stress-induced dark circles. 

It’s because of him. He thinks about how, even in sleep, she is not able to entirely shake off the barbs and bolts hurled her way by people who can barely spell her name. He thinks of how unhappy she’s been, how she shies away from any screen at all, how she stiffens, just for a second, before opening up a newspaper.

Solas reaches out, traces his finger over the cold screen, where her photo is still displayed.  _ Ir abelas _ , he thinks to himself.  _ This is my fault _ . He’s failed her, but no more.

His phone is so heavy in his hand.

“ _ Ma fen _ !” He has to close his eyes at the sound of her voice. He commits it to memory; the ever-so-slight emphasis on  _ ma _ , the soft, huskily exhaled  _ fen _ , the happiness coating both words.

“Thalia.” Solas has to force himself to sound cool and detached.

“Solas?” The confusion he can hear nearly undoes him. “Is something the matter?”

“I have been thinking-” so very much, too much, his mind is screaming  _ don’t do this _ but what other choice does he have, “about us. About our situation.”

There’s a very short silence. He can picture the frown on her face. “Oh?”

“Yes. And I have come to the conclusion-” the words stick in his throat, “that it is best for the both of us if we- if we ended things.”

“You want to break up?” There’s confusion in her tone, “But- why?”

He stares out of the window but nothing registers. His ears are ringing, his stomach is churning violently, and his heart is beating too fast. What can he say? What  _ should _ he say? “I do not think this relationship is working out, Thalia.” His mouth is dry. His eyes are burning; the view outside his window gets blurry, like everything is out of focus.

“Is this some kind of twisted joke, Solas?” she speaks too fast, her pitch too high. “Because it’s really not funny.”

“It isn’t. I- I made a mistake. I should never have- Clearly, the past few months have demonstrated how ill-suited we are-”

There’s panic in her voice, and her breath hitches repeatedly as she speaks. “I- you- we can fix things! Solas, it can’t be- I- I  _ love _ you. And I know you love me! Why- why are you doing this? I-  _ ar lath ma- _ ” her voice grows thick with tears.

“I’m not doing anything, Thalia, only stating that our relationship has run its course.” How is it his voice is so steady, so even, when his chest is in chaos?

“I’m- I’m not giving up on you! On us!” There’s a spark of heat there, of angry disbelief, an accusing undertone of  _ how can you do this to me _ . He would give  _ anything _ to take the pain from her, but he can’t, and that is a special agony all of its own.

How many ways is he going to fail her?

His chuckle is bitter and catches in his chest and does its best to choke him. “Regardless of how you feel about it, I’ve made my mind up. We’re through, Thalia.” 

It’s what he deserves, to be alone, and unloved, and bereft of her warm affection. How could he have thought, even for a moment, that he could have any of that? He should have known that he could only offer her misery and distress; if he’d stayed away, then he wouldn’t have to listen to her anguished weeping, the shuddering sobs that pour out of the speaker.

“Solas, whatever the matter is,” she’s pleading now, desperately trying to make herself understood through her hiccups, “we can work on it together- make it better-”

“No. We can’t.” He has to bite down on his fist before he can speak again. For a second he lets himself break down, allows himself to let out a hoarse cry, a vain attempt to alleviate the pain in the hollow cavity that once housed his heart. “I’m sorry.” Such a weak, pitiful statement, after the damage he’s wrought - he can hear it in the way she’s crying so hard he’s genuinely concerned she isn’t breathing enough - to offer an  _ I’m sorry _ and expect it to make things better.

“Please,  _ vhenan _ ,” she begs quietly, softly, sadly, and now he does break down, falling to his knees, a hand pressed to his chest because if he doesn’t his ribs will crack and spill the shards of his heart out onto the floor.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers brokenly through his tears. “I can’t.” Before she can say anything else, before she can change his mind, he hangs up, staring at the lit-up screen, his finger twitching over the small green icon that will allow him to call her back. He wants to. So badly. Wants to call her and tell her it was just a mistake; he doesn’t mean it, he loves her in a way he’s never loved anybody, he doesn’t want anyone else but her, he can’t imagine himself without her-

He exhales. He will have no one waiting for him. No one to wrap her arms around his neck and press soft kisses to his cheek and say,  _ I missed you. _

No more visits to the bakery, sneaking into the kitchen with boxed lunches for two. 

No one to hand him muffins with a blush on her cheeks, a bright twinkle in her eyes.

No more  _ ar lath ma. _

No more  _ vhenan _ .

Solas throws the phone at the wall and watches it shatter, the pieces raining down into the carpet.


	13. Chapter 13

Thalia dully kneads the dough pressing into it with the bottoms of both hands, folding it over before stretching it out again. She moves mechanically, her shoulders rolling with the motion. It takes several minutes before she’s satisfied with how it is, then transfers the dough to a large glass bowl and covers it with a damp towel before placing it into the proving drawer.

She wipes her hands on her apron, leaving behind floury prints, then looks around for the next thing to do. That’s become her motto, now.  _ Find the next thing to do _ . Keep her hands occupied, keep her mind occupied, do everything she can to ignore the ache in her chest, the kind that makes her feel as though she ought to be gasping for air. Pretend that there isn’t a constant tightness in her throat, pretend that there isn’t a sharp hollowness in her guts.

It’s been a week, and it still hurts so much she can’t breathe sometimes. He’s entrenched himself so deeply into her life that there isn’t anywhere she can go to flee the memories. What she’d give for just a fraction of his wealth. Not even a tenth of it, just enough so she could book a room by the seaside and spend a fortnight amidst the sun and surf. 

But- this is her life. She was content with it before, maybe she can learn how to be happy again.

She measures the flour, sieving it with the cocoa powder before dropping heaping spoonfuls of the dry mixture into the stand mixer, letting it incorporate with the sugar and butter and eggs. 

Creators, she hates baking muffins now. 

Nearby, the small tablet that was Varric’s gift to her plays some mundane show. A group of women, clearly Orlesian, sit around a table, their mouths painted red and twisted into sneers. “ _ So, ladies,” _ the leader speaks, flicking her very straight blonde hair over a shoulder, “ _ what do you think of the news that Fen’harel is single again _ ?”

The brunette next to her giggles. “ _ I heard he’s now seeing Warden-Commander Mahariel. She's certainly more his level- _ ” 

Thalia blindly reaches over and turns it off, her eyes welling with tears that she impatiently brushes away with the back of her hand. She’s not going to cry over him. Not again. She’s- she’s spent enough time doing that. 

Her cheeks burn as she remembers the way she’d pleaded with him over the phone. She’d made such a fool of herself! No wonder he didn’t want her- she exhales. Places her palms on the countertops and lets her head hang, then breathes in and out deeply through her mouth.

Min steps into the kitchen. Thalia can feel the way her friend is looking at her but ignores it. 

“How are things?” Min asks cautiously.

She straightens, still not looking at her friend. “Waiting on the bread to rise. The muffin mix is ready, we can start getting it into the trays-” she has to halt and take a breath so she can exhale out the ache in her chest.

“You could leave, if you want to. I can handle things.” Min places a hand on her shoulder, her voice quiet. 

She laughs bitterly. “For what? So the press can take even more unflattering photographs of me, and ask me why Solas left me? So they can ask me to speculate on his new relationships?  _ Ms. Lavellan, _ ” she says mockingly, parodying a reporter, “ _ can you comment on rumors that Mr. Fen’harel broke up with you to pursue a relationship with Warden-Commander Mahariel? _ Or,” her eyes fill with tears but she stubbornly clenches her jaw because she will not let them fall, she won’t, “or maybe I could curl up on my couch and read the newspaper. You know, the ones that can’t seem to decide if I was cheating on him, or if he was cheating on me-”

“Oh, Lia,” Minaeve pulls her into a hug and she allows herself to lean against her friend, to rest her head on the brunette’s shoulders. 

“You were right,” she whispers. She can feel Min’s shirt beneath her cheek grow damp. “You warned me it wouldn’t end well. I should have listened. I’m an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot,” Min strokes her back. “He is. He’s an absolute moron for letting you go.”

“Why doesn’t it feel that way?” she whispers. “Why can’t I stop thinking- he never once invited me to his office, that he never introduced me to anyone in his life. Was he  _ ashamed _ of me, Min? Did he think I wasn’t good enough for him?” She pulls away, gratefully accepting the tissues Min hands her and wipes her eyes with it. “Why does it feel like I messed up?”

“It’s not your fault,” Minaeve leans against the countertop. Her lips are thinned out, but Thalia knows the anger isn’t at her. “You did nothing wrong. You were - are - kind and generous and caring. Anyone, anywhere, would be beyond lucky to have you, Lia. If Solas-” Thalia winces at the sound of his name, “-can’t see that, then he’s not just an asshole, but a blind one at that. So for the love of the Maker, please stop being so hard on yourself. You should be cursing him out, not berating yourself for what he did!”

There’s a long silence. Thalia’s gaze is fixed to the ground. She’s suddenly so tired; the past few days of not sleeping or eating well are finally catching up to her, it seems. “If I did nothing wrong,” she says in a low voice, still not looking at Minaeve, “and we loved each other, then why- why did he-?”

Min sighs and runs a hand through her hair. “I don’t know,” she says softly. “I wish I did. I wish I could give you closure,  _ lethallin _ , but I can’t. And you shouldn’t shoulder the blame because you don’t have the answers.”

Thalia knows her friend is right, but that doesn’t stop the coil of rusty barbed wire in her chest from rolling, ripping into her tissue as it does. Her insides feel hollowed, and her outsides exposed. Every insecurity she’s ever had, each one she’s worked so hard to battle, have surged, rearing their ugly heads and pummeling her mind, leaving only crippling doubt in their wake. “You’re right,” she exhales. “I know you are, but… I can’t…” 

“I know.” Minaeve cradles her hands, bending to meet Thalia’s eyes. “I know it hurts now, but it’ll get better. I’m here for you, okay? Whatever you need.”

“Thanks,” her eyes fill with fresh tears.

“How about we wrap things up here, pick up some pizza and ice cream, and watch that terrible show you like? Maybe we’ll finally see if Racquelle finally figures out that Richard is a dick.”

“He’s  _ such _ a dick,” she chuckles through a sniffle. 

It takes another two hours, but she’s got everything prepped for the next day; the countertops have been wiped down, the floors have been swept and mopped, and Minaeve had volunteered to clean the bathrooms - a blessing, because Thalia breaks down each time she catches her reflection in the mirror.

There are only two people outside the store by the time she and Min leave, one of them the robust, ruddy-cheeked man she’s seen often who never fails to badger her with questions -  _ Ms. Lavellan, is it true you cheated on Fen’harel? _ \- but she’s able to easily ignore him, even if it does make her tongue burn with the effort of not retorting. It’s a small mercy, she thinks as she gets into the passenger seat of Min’s small blue sedan, that the attention of the press has drastically decreased once they figured out that her relationship with Solas had ended. 

They stop to pick up a large cheese pizza - with extra cheese, of course - from The Herald’s Rest, along with a tub of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, and before long they’re settled on Thalia’s couch with their feet up on the coffee table, yelling at the screen when Racquelle kisses Richard. 

One week turns into two. She dreams of the way his eyes crinkle up at the corners when he still smiles down at her, of the way his hands slide into her hair right before he presses his mouth to hers. It feels so real, and it makes her ache with yearning; and so she reaches out across the bed each morning, her mind still foggy with sleep, only for reality to come crashing down in a harsh, cold, empty space where he used to be. Her heart still blips each time her phone beeps, and she can’t seem to stop herself from constantly, compulsively checking her messages.

Thalia finds herself sitting in the bakery late into the night, curled up on the couch by the plate window, her eyes searching for a familiarly sleek black car, her heart sinking deeper and deeper into depression as the traffic thins out, until there’s only the streetlights illuminating the empty roads, and then she weeps a little into her apron before she finally turns the sign from  _ open _ to  _ closed _ and locks up. 

She doesn’t know exactly why she’s waiting for him. She probably shouldn’t, she knows. He’s made himself very clear, after all, about them not being well-suited for each other; and yet the more she thinks about it, the more she replays that call in her mind, the more she can hear his own heartbreak in the silence, his pain in the indecision of his tone. There’s something he isn’t telling her, she decides, some secret he’s hiding; and though the thought of him keeping things from her is unpleasant, she decides to give him space, to let him work through his matters at his own pace and tells him as such.

_Solas_... _I don’t expect you to reply to this, but I had to let you know. Ar lath ma._ _I have not given up on you._

She watches his interview on the news; he talks about the Arbor Wilds, of the ruins discovered within, and she can read the tension and the stress in the way he holds himself so straight, his hands clasped behind his back, and she hurts with him and for him.

Still he does not reply. Still she waits. Innate wisdom tells her that if she is to love a man who calls himself Pride, she must be willing to set aside her own. And for him, she can try.

It’s a particularly unexciting Saturday evening; Minaeve’s rinsing the dishes as she puts away the leftovers of their dinner when her phone rings. For a brief moment, her heart soars in hope, only for it to get dashed when she sees Felassan’s name on the caller i.d. She doesn’t want to pick up. She doesn’t want to hear his voice. He’s too close to- to Solas, and she can’t  _ deal _ with-

The call ends. She sighs in relief. Her screen lights up with a message.

_ Pick up, please. It’s important. _

Her phone rings again. It’s Fel.

“What do you want?” she all but growls at him.

“Lia,” his voice is rushed and filled with urgency and a host of other emotions she can’t quite decipher. “Lia, you need to come to your bakery now. It’s-” he trails off, and she can hear a muted conversation on the other end for a few seconds before he continues, “-something’s happened, Lia. It’s- it’s bad. You need to get here at once.”

Her heart sinks, and her stomach fills with lead. She doesn’t bother saying goodbye as she hangs up. Her mind races with possibilities. Has someone broken in? Has she been robbed? Was it a vandal? She feels so cold. “Fel called,” her voice trembles, “he said- he said something’s bad happened… at the bakery…”

“I’ll drive,” Min grabs her keys and her jacket. Thalia follows numbly, her mind still struggling to process the news. 

The trip feels like it takes an eternity. Thalia’s knee bounces impatiently up and down at every signal, willing it to change, the sense of panic rising further and further up her throat till it’s difficult for her to swallow. Her fears only rise as several firetrucks rush past their car, their sirens blaring especially loudly. Finally,  _ finally, _ they arrive at Dalish Delights, only to be met with a crowd of police cars and firetrucks.

Thalia lets out an anguished cry when she spots the thick plumes of smoke rising up into the night sky.

She stumbles out of the car before Minaeve has fully parked, her shaky legs making it all the more difficult as she staggers towards her bakery. There’s glass scattered across the ground, all that remains of the plate window she’d so carefully cleaned every day. Someone’s spray-painted  _ WHORE _ in sickly bright red across the charred door which is now hanging sadly off a hinge.

The interior of the store is a ruined, gutted mess. The pretty green walls are covered in soot, the tables and chairs she picked out are practically charcoal, her display case is a mangled, twisted mess of metal.

“No,” she whispers in horror. Not in her wildest dreams could she have imagined- “CREATORS,  _ NO! _ ” she wails, an arm wrapped around her stomach, another at her throat. She can’t see anything but her ruined dream, can’t hear anything but the soft hiss and crackle as everything that had been on fire cools under the weight of water.

“Lia,” there’s a hand on her shoulder, and she’s so numb she lets herself be turned. She raises blank eyes to Felassan, whose gaze is filled with pity and fury. “I’m so sorry, Lia.”

She blinks mutely at him. Turns to stare at her bakery again. Her mouth opens and closes several times before she’s able to speak. “Why?” she asks in a weak, cracking voice, swaying slightly on her feet. 

Felassan’s grip on her tightens, keeping her steady even as her knees threaten to buckle from under her. “It was-” he begins, but he’s cut off by the sound of a deranged scream.

“YOU!” A female voice spits out hysterically, “YOU WHORE! YOU STOLE HIM FROM ME, YOU BITCH, YOU- LET ME GO! LET ME  _ GO! _ SHE TOOK HIM FROM ME-” Thalia watches as a woman she’s never seen before is dragged away in cuffs to a waiting police car, her gaze so full of hatred and loathing that Thalia can feel it burn on her skin.

“I’m sorry, Lia,” Fel is talking to her, but it sounds as though it’s coming from very far away. “That was- that was Maela. She- she used to be Solas’ secretary, but he fired her, and- she was in love with him- he didn’t reciprocate her feelings-”

She starts to laugh, the sound hysterical to even her own ears. “Of course Solas would be involved,” she speaks between great, gulping sobs, “of course he would be. What more will he take from me?” she sobs into Fel’s shoulder. Her body’s trembling so hard she feels like she’s going to physically fall apart; only the pressure of Felassan’s arms around her body is holding her together. He says nothing, only cradles the back of her head and listens to her grief.

“She hated me for nothing,” she gasps, the sound anguished, “I don’t have Solas any more, he doesn’t want  _ me _ \- she could’ve had him, she didn’t need to-” She’s crying so hard she can barely speak, her nose is clogged and her throat feels raw. “I- I’ve lost- I- everything is gone,” she sinks to her knees, supporting herself with one hand on the pavement, the concrete cool beneath her palm. Her vision is blurry. She turns to Felassan, who’s on his haunches beside her. “Tell your boss he’s won, Fel,” she says exhaustedly. She kneads her chest with the heel of a hand, desperately trying to stop the pain. “I give up. He’s won. He’s- there’s nothing more he can take from me. Ask him to call off his hounds.” She begins to cry again, softer this time, for she’s out of energy. “I’ve lost everything,” her breath hitches. “Tell him I beg for mercy. Tell Fen’harel that I’m sorry for daring to overstep my position… I- I- what am I going to  _ do _ ?” she laments, doubling over, gripping her hair with both hands and rocking back and forth, looking every inch the pitiful soul she was at that moment.

“I’ll fix this,” he promises in a low voice, stroking her back but she barely feels it. “It’ll- it’ll be okay, Lia. I promise-” 

Someone approaches her, polished black shoes that look like they’re part of a uniform. “Ms. Lavellan?” It’s one of the officers, waiting to take a report from her, and Thalia wipes away her tears and rises to her feet, her head throbbing unpleasantly as she hoarsely goes over the details. She follows procedure, nods mutely at the firefighter who tells her the extent of the damage -  _ the building foundations are stable, the electrical and plumbing will need to be brought up to code before the space can be occupied again _ \- she wants to laugh, because she knows the building owner will not lease to her again, not after this, but she pushes that away to deal with later, later when she has the time and freedom and privacy to break down the way she desperately wants to.

Her phone rings again, and she picks it up, habit and instinct driving her actions.

“Thalia?” It’s her father. 

“Father?” She’s tempted to hang up, but by the Creators, he’ll make her life miserable if she doesn’t give him the five minutes he expects from her. “ _ On dhea’lam, _ ” She walks, hollow-eyed, into the charred remains of her dream, the tiles cracking beneath her feet like so many bones.

He doesn’t bother with pleasantries. “What’s this I hear about Fen’harel leaving you?”

Her eyes prick with tears at the name. Her throat burns. “Father, I-”

“You’ve just lost the best thing in your life,” he exclaims, huffing down the line, his arrogant voice beating down on her. “How do you keep screwing up so badly?”

Thalia squeezes her eyes shut. Her ribs feel like they’re shrinking. Panic rattles her stomach, makes her feel hot and cold all over. “Now isn’t the best time-”

“I hope you have a plan to fix this, young lady,” there’s ice in his tone now, the same kind that he’d used when she had dared to suggest that she wasn’t interested in law school. “Catching Fen’harel’s attention was the only thing of worth you’ve done all your life-”

She can’t take any more. There are so many things wrong with that statement but her mind is so filled with grief and loss, she doesn’t register the words, only the emotion carried in them, and that familiar sense of failure and defeat flood into her. “ _ Papae _ ,” she weeps, desperate for a shred of parental affection, for a scrap of fatherly love, “someone burned down my bakery-”

Bangael Evris makes a scoffing, dismissive sound. “That’s what insurance is for. Now stop your weeping - you’re not a little girl anymore! Go do whatever it takes to get that man back. Maybe he left because you’re just a baker - don’t you have that fancy degree I paid for? It’s about time you use it.”

Thalia abruptly cuts the call, presses the phone to her chest in a bid to fill the cold chasm within. She’s never felt so alone, so unwanted, so entirely- inconsequential. 

There’s the crunch of footsteps, and Dorian is suddenly by her side. “Lia,” he begins, then trails off, his breath exhaling sharply as he surveys the damage.

“It was Solas’ secretary,” she remarks dully. She feels numb. Her mind is blank. There’s a void within her, a hollowness in her core. “She didn’t like that I was involved with him. She didn’t know he dumped me.”

“Felassan told me,” Dorian wraps an arm around her shoulders. “We’ll press charges, get you a restraining order. She’ll have to pay for all damages. We can sue Solas too, if that’s what you want.”

She shrugs halfheartedly, her gaze fixed on the blank space on the far wall where her sign used to hang. “My father called,” she says quietly, bringing her phone up in front of her. The screen is black and dull. “I told him about the bakery, but he didn’t care. He yelled at me because Solas left me.”

Dorian stiffens next to her. “Your father is a purulent hemorrhoid,” he growls out. “And Solas is a chicken-hearted buffoon, and neither of them deserve even the most minuscule amount of your attention and time.”

She shakes her head, falling into silence, her eyes scanning the area around her. All her ingredients have been destroyed; her stand mixers are a lump of noxious-smelling plastic, her mixing bowls and whisks and spatulas are nowhere to be seen. The velvet-covered chair, that gift from her mother, is destroyed, and she thinks she sees the fragments of her favorite lumpen mug in the distant corner.

It’s all gone, all of it.

Did she have money in the till, she wonders. The answer is yes, but she supposes it’s a small mercy that it was only some odd change, but even so, the loss of that - on top of everything else - stings.

“What do I do now?” she asks Dorian, seated in the back seat of his car with a blanket around her shoulders. He’s angled himself carefully so that her view of… everything… is blocked. From somewhere, she can hear Minaeve and Felassan talking, but they’re too far away to make out the words. “I don’t know what to do, Dorian. What am I supposed to do? Start over? I don’t think I can do that. I’m just-” she sighs, and hides her face in her hands. “Everything is gone, I can’t afford to-” she breaks off. She wants to cry, but she doesn’t have anything in her anymore. Everything feels dulled and deadened and bleak.

“If I might make a suggestion,” Felassan walks up to them. He shares a look with Dorian, one she doesn’t bother analyzing, before continuing, “you need a vacation. Get away from here, take your mind off everything. Just relax while I take care of matters here.”

She laughs mirthlessly. “Sure, let me do just that, Fel. And when I return, I’ll just let myself be evicted for not paying my rent. Being homeless can be the cherry on top of the shit sandwich that’s apparently my life.” 

“He’s got a point,” Dorian leans against the door and meets her startled gaze with an even one. “You need a break,  _ amica _ . You’ve been through a lot-”

“Dorian, I can’t fucking afford a fucking vacation,” she hisses, “or did you miss the giant lump of charcoal that used to be my livelihood?”

“I have a small cottage near Lake Sirmione,” Dorian ignores her outburst. “Take a week off. It’s secluded but well-guarded enough that you won’t be bothered by any unwanted attention. And the view is spectacular.”

“I can’t, I need to be here- I have to follow up with the police, and meet the insurance people, and-”

“And I can take care of all that,” Dorian says firmly. “As your friend and your lawyer, I’m more than capable of handling matters.”

“But-”

“Anything financial will be covered by me,” Felassan says quietly.

Thalia looks up at him, aghast. “Absolutely not,” she begins, but he cuts her off.

“Please, Lia,” his brows are furrowed and he can’t seem to meet her eyes. “Let me do this.  _ Sathan, lethallin _ . It’s the least I can do after- after all this. I should never have encouraged- I thought you were-” he rakes a hand through his hair, “I never thought he would be so-” he trails off on an exhale. “Let me do this, please. Let me help. It’s the only way I can assuage my guilt.”

She reaches out and grips his hand lightly. “It’s not your fault,” she says softly, giving his fingers a gentle squeeze. The prospect of running away from everything is incredibly appealing. To be away from the mess, away from  _ him _ \- nothing sounds better at the moment. If it makes her a coward, well. She’s not perfect. “I will accept.  _ Ma serannas _ .”

  
  



	14. Chapter 14

Solas looks up as Felassan storms into his office, a brow quirked upwards at his PA’s unusual show of temper. Felassan’s lips are thinned out, his eyes narrowed, and in his hands he holds a newspaper rolled up.

“Have you seen this?” he demands, dropping the paper onto the table.

“ _ On dhea _ to you too,” Solas remarks drily.

Felassan ignores him, instead reaching over to turn the pages of the paper. He jabs a finger at a section two pages in. “You need to read this.”

Frowning, Solas glances at what Felassan is pointing at; he’s immediately filled with horror as the title hits him.  _ Local Bakery Burns: Suspect In Custody _ . There’s a picture of  _ Dalish Delights _ , only he doesn’t recognize the pretty store. It’s a ragged, gutted mess, a blackened shell; and by the corner stands a pale, horrified Thalia, hand on her forehead, entirely unaware she was being captured on film.

“You knew Maela was trouble,” Felassan hisses. “You  _ knew _ she was unhinged. I told you to tell Thalia, didn’t I? I told you that Maela would try to go after her. But you didn’t listen, did you? Of course not. The great Fen’harel doesn’t care about anyone.” He shakes his head in disgust. “I vouched for you. I told Thalia you were a good man, but I was wrong. So very wrong. She loved you, but you-” he makes a sound of disgust.

“When- how did this happen?” he asks, his voice little more than a whisper. “Was- was she injured?”

“She’s unharmed. Physically, at least. Mentally-” Felassan shrugs. “I don’t know anyone who would be well after something like that.” His eyes close briefly at some memory, his breath leaving him in a rush. Solas can feel the tension emanating from the man.

Felassan fixes him with an indecipherable stare. “She had a message for you. Well, I don’t know if it was really a message, but I feel like I should let you know.”

Solas waits for him to continue; when it’s clear that Felassan isn’t going to say anything, he clears his throat before speaking. “What did she say?”

“She said,  _ Tell your boss he’s won. Tell Fen’harel I give up. I have nothing left for him to take. _ ” 

Solas shuts his eyes, the words hitting him like a physical blow, leaving him breathless, his insides cold with an unknowable kind of terror. “She said that?”  _ Fen’harel, _ she’d said, not  _ Solas _ , and that was a sharp, ripping pain all in itself.

“She did.” Felassan reaches into the jacket, “I don’t blame her for feeling that way.” He draws out an envelope and drops it onto the table. “Here is my resignation. I quit, effective immediately.” With a last look of disappointment thrown his way, his friend leaves, slamming the door shut behind him.

Alone, every inch of him numb, Solas reads the article. It talks briefly about the damage, but most of it is devoted to linking both women to him, the author gleefully mentioning that  _ Ms. Vyanis, who served as secretary to Mr. Fen’harel for over a year, left his employ a week before his breakup with Ms. Lavellan _ . He scowls at the implication, pushing the paper away, his chest heavy with guilt. This was his fault. He’d left Thalia to protect her, but even in that- he drags both hands down his face. He wants to go to her. To beg forgiveness, and plead for the opportunity to support her. He thinks of their meeting that dark, stormy night - over a year ago, he realizes with a pang - and the shy pride on her face when he’d praised her store.

And now it was gone, and it was his fault.

_ Tell Fen’harel I give up _ . She had every right to hate him. He hated himself at that moment. 

He rises from his chair and paces, unable to sit still, wondering what to do. How to help. He doubts Thalia would let him - assuming she’d even agree to see him in the first place. Solas rubs the back of his neck as he stares out of his window, watching the traffic on the road many floors below. The few pedestrians are in a rush, making their way to bus and tram stops.

Is she alone, he wonders. He hopes not. She shouldn’t be alone, not ever, but especially now. 

He- he should go to her, shouldn’t he? He should apologize. Maybe if he sees things for himself he can figure out how to help, from a distance. He can’t just stay here, he has to- he has to do  _ something _ . Making a quick decision, Solas leaves the office, taking the elevator to the garage. His car might be conspicuous, but he doesn’t care. He just needs to  _ see _ \- maybe he’ll see her. 

He hopes he does.

The drive takes longer than usual due to peak hour traffic, but mercifully it tapers off by the time he reaches her neighborhood. He parks his car in the parking lot of the small pharmacy across the road.

_ Closed until further notice _ declares the small banner hanging from the broken frame of the large window. This close, the damage is even worse than he’d expected. There is nothing that can be salvaged - he thinks not even the building can be reclaimed. What had Maela used that could have caused so much destruction? Just how twisted was she that she could even think to do this?

Solas stares in horror at how much black soot is present.

Why hadn’t he done anything to prevent it? Felassan  _ had _ warned him. He could have told Thalia, but all he’d said was that his secretary had made a pass at him and he’d fired her for it. Better yet, he could have had someone keep an eye on her - if he’d mentioned Felassan’s concerns to Iron Bull, the qunari would have found a way to enact the kind of protection Thalia had so clearly needed. 

He leans back when he spots Dorian walking towards the store. A few minutes later, Felassan joins him, and though the elven man looks suspiciously in his direction, there’s no confrontation. The two men have a conversation before they’re joined by a third - Solas thinks he could be an insurance agent, a theory that’s proved correct when the man begins to examine the rubble.

Felassan and Dorian don’t look happy, and that makes him uneasy. What had the agent said? Solas wishes he knew more. Does he dare the righteous wrath of her friends to try and learn something?

There’s a tap on his window. Startled, he turns to find Felassan standing there. Solas flushes, and rolls down the window.

“If you’re looking for her, don’t bother. She isn’t here,” the other man states, sounding quite tired.

“I’m not-” he can’t meet Felassan’s gaze. He  _ had _ hoped to catch a glimpse of Thalia, to see her for himself- though to what end, he doesn’t know. “I came to see-” He looks at the damage again. “It’s worse than I expected from the picture-”

Felassan  _ hmms _ in agreement. 

“The agent-” Solas clears his throat. “What did he say?”

The other man sighs. “Just leave, Solas. Especially before Dorian catches sight of you.”

“I didn’t mean this- I never thought-” he tries to explain.

“I know.” Felassan raises a hand to Dorian who’s calling him over. “But this isn’t about you. It’s about Thalia. She’s been through enough, Solas. Let her be.” He doesn’t wait for a reply, returning to Dorian’s side, leaving Solas to his mixed, tangled knot of emotions.

* * *

There’s a knock on his door, an insistent  _ tap tap tap. _ Solas glares in its general direction before taking another sip from his crystal tumbler. He’s in no mood for any kind of company - not that he has any friends remaining who still want to be around him - and stares up at the ceiling, wallowing in his general misery. It feels good, the guilt, like a weighted blanket, the alcohol having blunted the sharper edges of the shattered, scattered pieces of his heart.

Or is it her heart? He drinks again, closes his eyes, conjures up her bright smile in his mind’s eye. Yes, that sounds about right. What a fool he is, a miserable, daft buffoon who broke his own heart in a futile attempt to spare hers, except it didn’t work out that way, did it? No, he instead ruined things entirely, and- even though he desperately wishes he had someone else to blame, there’s only him.

_ As it’s always been _ , he muses to himself. At this rate, he’s sure to die alone. Quite fitting, really.

The rapping at the door won’t stop.

He grunts in annoyance. Who in their damned mind- he curses beneath his breath and turns his attention, once more, to the bitter self-recriminations running through his head.

There’s a quiet  _ click _ , and then the door swings open to reveal Mythal, her assistant Abelas flanking her side. The PA steps in first, gives a quick look around, his nostrils flaring with barely-concealed disgust when he catches sight of Solas sprawled out sideways on the couch, one leg dangling over the armrest. He murmurs something to his boss, who nods, before departing as swiftly and silently as he’d appeared.

“Mythal,” he asks, more than a little disgruntled, squinting at the silhouette of her in the doorway, “not that I am ever displeased to see you, but can I inquire as to the purpose of this sudden visit?”

She walks in, shutting the door behind her, her bright yellow eyes sparkling with amusement and mischief. “Can I not simply visit an old friend?”

“Of course,” he gestures expansively to the space around him - which is dark, given that all of the curtains are closed and the lights have been turned off - “please, make yourself at home.”

She doesn’t sit. “I tried calling your office several times,” she says, turning on the lights and causing Solas to hiss and blink in discomfort. She ignores the sound and heads for the kitchen, “But it kept ringing, and when Abelas told me that your PA had quit, well- I thought I’d come see what the fuss was about.” Her brows rise when she sees the open, half-empty bottle of scotch on the countertop. “Celebrating, are we?” she calls over her shoulder as she pours herself a glass before screwing the top back on and putting it away.

“Yes,” he replies morosely, staring into the depths of his glass. There’s a whole lot in there but it’s less than he’d like. He swallows a mouthful, some of it going down the wrong way, burning through his airway in a way that feels quite appropriate. He coughs for several moments before he continues in that same dour, morose tone, “I am reveling in the fact that I am a cruel man and a monumental dunce.”

“Oh?”

“Indeed.” He drains what liquid remains in the crystal tumbler, grimacing at the heat rushes down his throat. “I have ruined the only person I have ever loved. She hates me, and I have no one to blame for it but myself.”

“You mean the baker?” Mythal stands in front of him, her gaze pointedly on his errant leg, and with a huffed, ungracious sigh he rearranges himself, resting his elbows on his knees, head hanging between his shoulders. “Abelas approves of her, you know, and he’s so very difficult to impress.” She sits across him. “What exactly did you do?” her brows are raised as she waits for him to speak.

He tells her everything. How he first met Thalia, how he’d hidden his identity from her at first, her anger when she discovered who he was. How she was so unlike anyone else he’d ever known. How much he cared for her. His voice is sad and low when he speaks of her trials with the fame that came from being associated with him, how hard it had been to watch her struggle. 

“Is that why you decided to end your relationship?” Mythal asks. She looks as though she’s calling on all the spirits in the Fade for patience.

“No,” he exhales, rolling the empty glass between his fingers. “After the meeting- you know the one?” At her nod, he continues, “Elgar’nan asked me to stay behind. He was not happy about-”

“About the financials?” Mythal shakes her head, crosses one leg over the other. “How entirely expected of him.”

“He was going to go after the workers,” Solas can’t meet her eye, “and- and I cannot abandon my responsibilities. The people - they need me. I swore to help them. I have failed them in several ways, I did not want to make things worse. I did not  _ entirely _ want to break things off, but-” he sighs, “Thalia was already having a tough time with everything. I thought- I thought if I let her go, she would be happier, and I could- I knew it would hurt me, but I had made my peace with it, with the solace that at least I could do my duty. It was never my intention to- I only ever wanted to protect her…”

“So, instead of talking to her and telling her all the issues you were facing, you decided to  _ unilaterally _ make the decision to end your relationship?” Mythal rolls her eyes. “Of course you did.”

“I did what I thought was best,” he tries to defend himself, but it sounds flat even to his own ears.

“Did it ever occur to you that you had other options? I do not mean the very obvious one where you had open communication with your partner,” she shakes her head in disapproving amusement, “but you could have come to me, Fen’harel.”

“I did not wish to put you in an awkward position-”

“If you had,” she continues over his attempted interruption, “I could have told you that Elgar’nan has a  _ habit _ of issuing those kinds of ultimatums, though you are the first to take it seriously.”

He stares at her, flabbergasted. “What?!”

Mythal chuckles. “Did you truly think you were the only one to receive that kind of demand? You are not the first person to find a partner, Fen’harel. Elgar’nan has never been happy when he is forced to acknowledge the presence - or even the  _ potential _ presence - of new blood in both the family and the company.” She grins at some fond memory, “He was most agitated when June brought home Sylaise. Mind you, the first time we had dinner together he got incredibly drunk, yelled something rude about her dress, then locked himself up in his study for the rest of the weekend and refused to come out. And don’t get me started on how he was when June wanted to bring Sylaise into the company! He nearly wore my ears out with his incessant whining. And then, of course, Andruil started dating Ghila’nain. Andruil, Fade help her, was so flighty none of us thought she’d settle. Neither I nor Elgar’nan thought the two of them would last.”

Mythal swirls her whiskey, watching it roll around in the tumbler. “You would have laughed at his reaction, my friend. He was like a child in the boardroom, shouting about how Ghila’nain was just a mad scientist who had no idea what she was doing, and the thousand mysterious, vague ways she would sully the Evanuri name. He wasn’t  _ entirely _ wrong,” she mutters, “Ghila’nain does have several screws loose in her head, but she is also a brilliant biologist who has developed many therapeutic remedies. You know this. In any case, when it became clear that they were becoming a serious couple, he gave Andruil an ultimatum - either she devotes herself to the company, upon which he continues to permit her the freedoms in running her division the way she saw, or, if she insisted on carrying on her relationship with Ghila’nain, he would begin to charge the tariffs he had previously waived.”

“I’m guessing she found a way around it?” he remarks drily, something catching in his chest. Shame, perhaps? Or more guilt? He can’t tell.

“She told him to go fuck himself, that if he tried anything with her part of the company she would sue him even if it meant everybody’s ruin. Elgar’nan tried to raise a motion against her, but he was quickly cut down. He gave up after that. Now, many years later, he’s come to think of Ghila’nain as part of the company.”

“Thalia would not want to be a part of this,” he mutters. “She had no interest in the company at all. She would never want to join-”

“She doesn’t have to,” Mythal sighs with frustration. “My point is- you  _ know _ Elgar’nan is an old self-important windbag. Why, for the love of all spirits, did you choose  _ this _ to be the occasion to listen to him, after you’ve spent years ignoring him? What did you think he could do? And even if you did think he was capable of something, why did you not come to me? You know very well I would have lent you my assistance, Fen’harel. Instead, you chose to do things your way, refused to communicate with anyone, and now, here we are, with you sitting in the dark, trying to drink yourself into a stupor.”

“That’s not all,” he looks shamefacedly at the older woman.

Mythal groans. “Of course it’s not. What happened?”

“No.” He tells her about Maela, how he’d caught her in his office, her subsequent deranged declarations to him, her inexplicable hatred of Thalia. “Felassan warned me that she was unstable,” he exhales, “but I didn’t listen. Instead-” he takes a deep breath, tensing then relaxing his shoulders, “instead she went and burned down Thalia’s bakery. For what? We were not even together at the time.”

“Revenge,” Mythal says simply, her sharp gaze never leaving him. He wants to squirm under the weight of it, but manages to keep himself together. “She couldn’t have you, so she drove off anyone who she thought did.”

He shakes his head. “Her ire should have been at me, then.”

“Perhaps, but she was obsessed with you, yes? She desires you, so why would she want to hurt you in any way?”

“Regardless,” the sound leaving his lungs is heavy and thick with guilt, “I have ruined-  _ everything _ .” 

“Yes, you have.” Mythal’s brisk statement has him pouting. “If being with you truly made her unhappy, then she would have left, Fen’harel. She strikes me as an intelligent woman. Surely she knew the risks before she entered into a relationship with you. I can tell you that Ghila’nain too struggled with the press, but she learned to handle them in time. It helped that Andruil was there to guide and support her,” she says, giving him a pointed look. “You, on the other hand, decided that your Thalia was too stressed - without asking her! - then you made the both of you incredibly unhappy by ending a relationship that, as I have mentioned many times, made you smile a great deal more often than I’ve ever seen you do so. And now, despite acknowledging your errors, you’ve conceded defeat and are just sitting here and brooding. I did not take you as the type to give up so easily, Fen’harel.”

He draws in a deep, slightly shaky breath. Mythal is correct. He should have confided in her; Thalia had trusted him, after all. He should never have-“I’ve made a huge mistake,” he groans, running a hand down his face.

“You absolutely have,” Mythal agrees. She leans back in her chair and takes a large drink from her glass, letting out a quiet, pleasurable sigh at the taste of the scotch. She gives him a wide, knowing smirk. “Now go to her and fix it, you idiot.”


	15. Chapter 15

The cottage is truly a serene place. The waters of Lake Sirmione shimmer in enchanting shades of blues and teals, their glow enhanced by the flawless lapis lazuli of the sky. There’s not a cloud in sight, as she makes her way to the shore. 

She can’t seem to stop her mind, though. There are a hundred things running through her mind, and she hates -  _ hates _ \- that Solas is one of them.

What’s wrong with her? 

Dorian and Felassan have kept her updated in the week she’s been here, letting her know about the meeting with the insurance agent - there was some hiccup with the landlord, Dorian had said, but it had all been sorted out. She has enough to open another bakery, if she wants to, but it would mean starting anew.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? She just doesn’t think she wants to. She loves baking, so what’s the problem?

She sits on a nearby rock and sighs. Picks up a smooth, flat stone and skips it along the water’s surface, watching it bounce several times before sinking.

The problem, she knows, is Solas. She doesn’t think she’ll ever be able to knead dough or mix batter without thinking of him - and worse, thinking of, well, everything that happened after they broke up. It’ll probably be a while before the image of the burned-out bakery ceases to haunt her. And the thought of opening another one, potentially risking it happening  _ again _ … logically, she knows that what happened won’t repeat itself. But somehow, during all the time she’s spent with Solas, the bakery -  _ her _ bakery - became inextricably tied to him, and the thought of starting another one, without him… it just feels so… like without him, something in her life is missing.

Which is ridiculous, really. As if she needs a man in her life to make her happy. She’s perfectly capable of creating her own joy!

So  _ why _ , for the love of all the spirits, does she feel this  _ morose _ ?

Her phone pings. It’s Felassan.

_ You’ll never guess who messaged me again today _ .

_ I don’t need to guess. What did he have to say this time? _

> _ Felassan, please. I swear to you I only want to apologize to Thalia, nothing else. I know I have made a grave error, but I cannot fix it without your help! _

She snorts at the screenshotted message. Suddenly he’s decided he’s made a ‘grave error’, has he?

_ So he feels guilty about his secretary’s actions, does he? Well, good. He should. _

_ He’s relentless. He won’t stop messaging me, Lia. _

_ Just, I don’t know, block him or something. _

It’s a good five minutes before his response.  _ Don’t kill me, but- I feel bad for him. _

Thalia narrows her eyes at her screen.  _ You feel sorry for him??!! What about me??? _

Felassan sends another screenshot.

> _ I understand you are trying to protect her. I was a fool. I know this. I cannot grovel at her feet if I do not know where she is. I know I’m in no position to ask for favors, but I do not know where else to go, or what else to do. Please.  _

Dammit. She can feel the earnestness of the plea on her skin. Her heart starts to ache. Now  _ she’s _ feeling bad for Solas… but she still hasn’t forgiven him.

_ I don’t know what you want from me, Fel. I can’t forgive him yet. It hurts too much. _

His reply is prompt.  _ I understand _ . 

But it leaves her feeling restless, and strangely guilty, as though she’s let him down in some way.

Another two days pass; this time, she’s in the small, but well-equipped kitchen when Dorian calls her. He gives her a brief update about the police report, tells her that he’s broken her lease with her landlord and that she can move in with him till she finds a new apartment. 

“There’s something I wanted to-” he hesitates for a second, “Maela’s family has agreed to a very,  _ very _ large settlement -  _ if  _ you agree to drop charges-”

“ _ What _ ???” she screeches.

“Let me finish. If you agree to drop charges, they’re willing to settle for-” he names a number so high she drops her knife onto the countertop in shock, “and they’ve also stated that they’ll admit their daughter to a secured mental institution.”

She frowns. “If her family’s so well off, why was she working for Solas?”

Dorian sighs. She can tell by the sound he’s rolling his eyes. “It was all part of her ploy to get him to notice her.”

Thalia’s quiet for a long time. She hates Maela, loathes her with an intensity that sometimes feels like something in her chest is acidic and corrosive. But… the amount is… exorbitant. She can have everything she wants, a house, a bakery, travel to exotic locales. She can repay Sahren for all his help. Keep her mother in comfort. 

Fucking Maela. 

“What do you think?” she asks in a low voice. She walks into the living area and drops herself onto the plush cushions of the leather couch. “What should I do?”

He’s careful in his speech. “My professional advice would be to accept the deal. We’ll have an ironclad contract, and we can impose penalties if they break their side-”

“But she’ll get off scot-free!”

“Thalia,” and she knows he’s serious when he uses her name like that, “I hate to say this, but- there’s a good chance that if we take this to court, her lawyers will hire a professional to argue that her mental capacity is diminished, in which case she won’t go to prison but to an institution. This way, well - there’s zero chance she’ll serve prison time, but at least you’ll get something out of it.” When she remains silent, he adds, “I understand how you feel,  _ amica _ . Whatever you decide, I won’t judge. I’ll be with you the whole way, you know that.”

She leans back, lets her head rest against the couch, closes her eyes. The ruins of her bakery come to her mind, all the char and the ash and the soot. If she accepts the deal, she’ll be as wealthy as Solas; maybe even a little wealthier. And then she could  _ really _ rub into his face how much he screwed up… “Tell them I accept,” she exhales. “But you make sure those penalties are in place, Dorian.”

“Of course,” he sounds mildly offended.

“Alright,” she stretches. Her head’s mildly aching, and she’s seriously tempted to ignore the rest of her meal prep and just order takeout instead. “Anything else?”

“Actually-” Dorian’s voice is incredibly tentative, “Solas has been messaging me quite frequently of late-”

“Not you too,” she groans. “He can’t take a hint, can he?”

“He has been quite relentless,” he agrees. “Can you believe he’s turned up at my door every evening for the past week?”

Thalia gnaws on her lip. “He has?”

“Indeed. I told him to get out quite a few times, but he just stood patiently outside the door for more than an hour before leaving.” Dorian exhales. “It made me feel monstrous, let me tell you, to hear him plead so much and not give him anything.” He falls silent then, and so does she, not knowing what to say to that. The image of Solas approaching her dearest friend - who he must have known would have disliked him - and beg at the doorstep… it twisted something within her. Had he done so with Felassan as well? The image of that tall, proud man humbling himself - so he could apologize to her!... she felt like she was being overly cruel. Surely it wouldn’t hurt her to spare the ten minutes or so to hear him out?

“You think I should give him a chance, don’t you,” she huffs.

“The man looks a haggard mess. It makes it so much harder to dislike him,” Dorian complains.

She sighs. There’s a chance she’ll regret this, but- “Fine, Dorian. Tell him I’ll hear him out, but he has to come here. I’m not ready to return to Skyhold just yet.”

“So much for my  _ secret _ vacation home,” he gripes. “I’ll give him the address.” Then, in a softer voice he asks, “Are you sure? If you don’t want to, you don’t have to.”

“I might as well listen to what he’s trying so frantically to tell me,” she says, but she can’t hide that little  _ blip _ of excitement her heart gives at the prospect of seeing him again.

Oh, she’s in trouble.

* * *

“Master Tethras?”

Varric groans. “Come on, Sparkler, you know that’s my dad.” He closes his laptop and slides it over to the side.

“I’m aware. You make a very amusing expression whenever anyone calls you that, though. Like a sad little orange.”

“Like the one you make anytime anyone addresses you as Magister Pavus?”

Dorian scrunches up his nose in disgust as he takes his seat across the table. He looks around. The Boar’s Tooth is what some people would call  _ quaintly rustic _ , but those people are wrong. There’s a touch too much grime on the tables, and more than a few suspiciously sticky spots on the floor, for the café to appeal to him. “This place is hardly a replacement for Thalia’s bakery,” he grimaces.

Varric takes a sip of his coffee. “Can’t exactly hang out there now, can I?”

“True. What a terrible fate to befall a place so charming. Certainly deserves some kind of retribution, wouldn’t you say?”

The author-slash-reporter raises a brow. “What do you mean?”

“I have it on good authority that a certain Ser Wolf has plans to meet with the owner of  _ Dalish Delights _ .”

“Oh?” Varric leans back in his seat, his eyes sparkling with interest. “You don’t say? The same owner who just so happens to be a friend of ours?”

“None other. Some amount of humble pie may be eaten during the meeting.”

“I don’t suppose you’d happen to know where this little reunion is going to take place, do you?”

“I may or may not.” Dorian fiddles with his phone, unable to stop his lips from twisting into a smirk. “It would be a shame if the press caught wind of it, don’t you think?”

Varric opens his laptop, his browser on an airline website. “Absolutely,” he agrees.

* * *

Thalia paces in circles. It’s a good thing there’s no carpet beneath her feet, or she’d have worn it away. She glances out of the window, fiddling with the watch on her hand before she checks the time.

He should be here any minute now, and her anxiety is ratcheting higher with every second.

What is he going to say? What is  _ she _ going to say? Is he going to stay for dinner? Should she have made something- what if he stays the night- no, that’s ridiculous, there’s no way he’d expect her to put him up for the night… right?

She takes her phone out of her pocket.

_ Are you sure he’s coming today? _

_ Yes. _ Felassan’s reply is instant.  _ I booked his ticket myself. _

_ I’m nervous and I don’t know why. _

__ You’ll figure it out. Now make yourself some tea, and relax.   
  
Thalia growls at her screen. Relax, indeed! What the hell does Fel know about it? Still, she takes his advice and places the small copper kettle on the stove before digging through her cupboards for the Rivaini black tea she likes.

There’s a knock on the door. Thalia drops the box. “ _ Fenedhis _ ,” she curses softly, then hurriedly gathers the sachets, throwing them haphazardly onto the counter. She wipes her suddenly clammy hands on her jeans, tucks a stray hair behind her ear, takes a deep breath, and makes her way to the door, her hand only slightly shaking as she opens it.

Solas is standing on the other side, dressed in a simple cream sweater - lambswool, she thinks - and pine green slacks, both creased from travel. Her eyes hungrily rove over his face, taking in the way his cheeks look sunken in, the unhappy droop to his mouth, before meeting his eyes. There’s a pronounced darkness around them. He gives her a tired, hesitant little smile. “Hello.”

“Hello,” she echoes.

“You- you look good,” he stammers, then winces and turns pink as though just recalling everything she’s been through. “Sorry,” he hastily adds, “I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s fine,” she’s still standing in the doorway, making no move to invite him in. 

He shifts from one foot to the other. “How- uh. How are you?”

That makes her chuckle bitterly. “How do you think I am?”

Solas winces again, drops his gaze to the patterned tile of the porch. “I’m sorry.” His voice is low.

Behind her, the kettle starts to whistle. Thalia sighs. “Come in,” she says at last, giving him space to step inside before shutting the door behind him, and goes to the kitchen to turn off the stove. She can feel his gaze on her. It’s making her jittery. Now that he’s here, the anger is back, but so is the heartache and the love she still bears for him. They’re all clashing together and she can’t quite decide which one she wants to act on first. Does she want to punch him in the face, or kiss him?

“You wanted to meet me,” she settles instead for crossing her arms and raising her chin defiantly, “well, I’m here. What do you want, Solas?”

He hangs his head for a moment before looking up at her again. “I wanted to apologize… for everything. For what happened at the bakery… I am so, so sorry, Thalia. I should have done- I should have warned you… or warned Bull… I could have done something…”

She scoffs. “I hardly think you’re to blame for some deranged, obsessive lover of yours targeting me, Solas, especially since we were already broken up by then-”

“We were not lovers!” he interjects vehemently. “Everything was strictly professional, I swear.”

“Yeah, right.” She can’t bring herself to believe him. 

“I promise you,” he takes a step towards her, his face so earnest, “that there was nothing between us. Not then, not ever. I could never look at another- you were all I ever wanted… you still are.” The last part is said so low she only just catches it. Something warm pours into her stomach, despite her efforts to seal her emotions away.

She gazes up at him. His eyes meet hers, no guile or guise within their depths, and she knows what he says is true. He wasn’t cheating on her with Maela. That dark, twisted bead of acerbic bitterness evaporates from where it’d been lodged in her heart. She hadn’t thought him the kind who’d be unfaithful, but she hadn’t thought he’d break up with her either, and so it had eaten away at her all this while. She exhales, her shoulders drooping with it.

“It wasn’t your fault,” she says, turning away from him. “You didn’t know what she was capable of.”

“I could have warned you-”

“And what could I have done with that?”

“You could have set up better security-”

Thalia rolls her eyes. “Solas, I couldn’t have afforded it. I was already struggling while we were together. Bull had to give me a large discount so I could afford the Chargers.”

He’s silent for a long time. She busies herself with preparing a now much-needed cup of tea. Finally, he asks, his voice laced with hurt, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

It makes her angry. How dare he use that tone! He’s not the one hurting, she is! He initiated their breakup, he broke her heart, he doesn’t get to put on the wounded puppy look. “Why?” she snaps. “So you could’ve cut me a check when you dumped me? Or would it have made you happier to know how much I was struggling? And when exactly would I have told you, anyway? You were always at work, I barely got to see you even though we were living together! So don’t you  _ dare _ pretend that you’re hurt, Solas, you have  _ no right _ at all -  _ you _ hurt  _ me! _ ”

His face scrunches up, brows knitting together, and he winces as though she’s physically wounded him. “I know I hurt you, and that is- I will forever carry the weight of that. Any troubles you face only bring me sorrow, Thalia. I only ever want you to be happy.”

“Oh?” she stalks over to where he’s standing, tea left forgotten on the counter, and jabs a finger at his chest. “Then explain to me why exactly you dumped me?” She prods him again, hard; there’s nothing gentle in her at the moment. “You wouldn’t even tell me  _ why _ . You didn’t even give me- give  _ us! _ \- a chance to work it out. And you know what, Solas? I could forgive all that - it would take me time, but I  _ could _ get past the lack of closure, but you know what I can't excuse?”

He does nothing to stop her attacks, and that infuriates her even more. “What I can’t excuse is the fact that you were so much a  _ coward _ that you couldn’t even break up with me in person, you had to do it over the phone. Over the fucking phone! You claimed you loved me but you had so little respect for me that you couldn’t even offer me the basic courtesy of-”

“I couldn’t!” he exclaims, his voice loud enough to drown hers out. She stares at him, mouth agape, stunned to silence. “I could not face you,” he says again, quieter this time. “I know it makes me a coward. But I knew- I knew if I tried to break matters off with you in person, I would falter, and be unable to go through with it. I loved you then,  _ vhenan _ , and- and I still love you,” he trails off, looking away, his profile so bleak it’s almost unbearable.

“Then why?” she asks. She feels so cold, so strangely bereft, she has to wrap her arms around herself to keep herself from seeking his embrace. “If you still love me-  _ why _ , Solas?”

He turns sad eyes to her, his gaze filled with guilt and self-loathing. “The fault was mine. I- I knew you were struggling, but- I did nothing. Work occupied more of my time than I liked, but I- I was already facing disdain and trouble from the other members for- for my relationship with you. I did not want to give them more reasons to dislike you, so- I spent more time at work-”

“Oh.” Her heart feels like it’s being run through a shredder. “So you  _ did _ break up with me because I was not-” her breath rushes out of her, and she stumbles blindly towards the couch, sinking ungracefully into the cushions. “I wasn’t good enough for you. Okay. Got it.”

“No!” he rushes over to her side, kneels by her feet. “Never! You are- you are  _ better _ than I am,  _ ma lath _ , your heart is kinder than mine could ever be. I did not  _ want _ to leave you! I-” he sighs and hangs his head. “I was a fool. The day I broke up with you- that morning, Elgar’nan accosted me and told me that if I did not leave you, he would fire more of the workers. I- I could not do that to them… I had already failed them once. I thought- you were so stressed with the press attention, Thalia, you were not sleeping well, and- and every picture I saw of you, you looked unhappy. And that was because of me, I know. I thought- I thought if I let you go, then I could protect you, keep you away from the fame that made you so upset, and also protect the workers. But I was a fool, and a coward, and I did not fight for you, for us, as I should have. And for that, I am truly, absolutely sorry, for you deserve so much better.”

The ache in her chest eases out to something cautious and tentatively hopeful. It was as she thought! He  _ was _ keeping things from her. It wasn’t right, and he shouldn’t have done it, but at least now she  _ understood _ . He didn’t want to break up with her, he was just being foolish and- well, a moron, and jumped to a solution he should never have considered in the first place. “You should have told me that. We could have figured things out together. I-” she sighs heavily, runs a hand over her head. Several strands escape the bun she’d pulled her hair into. “I suppose I’m not faultless,” she exhales. “I should have told you how much I was struggling; you could have helped me. I suppose-” she’s the one who can’t bear to look at him now- “I was insecure,” she confesses in a small voice. “I thought if you saw me struggle, you’d think I was weak, and that you’d leave me if you thought I was.” Thalia gives a small, sad little laugh. “So when you did break up with me it felt like I’d failed.”

“No,” he says immediately, taking both her hands between his. “I should have been there for you. You were a stranger to my world, and I should have been there to guide you. You’re not weak, Thalia. You are not a failure. You were simply overwhelmed, like any other person would have been.”

“Even you?” she quirks a brow.

The lift of his lips is slight, but his eyes crinkle up at the corners in that soft smile she’s only ever seen him wear around her. It makes her heart beat a little harder, a little faster, makes her more aware of the myriad freckles speckled across his cheeks and nose. “Shall I tell you a secret?”

Thalia nods, mesmerized.

“When I first joined the company, my only experience was in the world of art and architecture. I had no media experience, and so Mythal took me under her wing and taught me press etiquette. But I was younger then, and cockier, and I was not as easily able to ignore reporters as I am now. So, when a magazine falsely reported that I was responsible for the disappearance of a very valuable painting, I drove to their office, demanded to meet the editor, and punched him in the face.”

“You did not,” she gasps.

“I did,” he grins, “I do not know if you recall the lawsuit I settled out of court all those years ago?”

Her forehead furrows in thought. “Wait, the one in Orlais?” she giggles, her eyes wide. “That was because you punched an editor?”

“Indeed,” his lips are raised in rueful amusement. “So I can tell you that you are far more composed than I was.”

Thalia can’t seem to stop chuckling. The image of Solas just brazenly punching one of those pompous, masked Orlesians in the nose is just fantastic. “That’s…  _ hilarious _ .”

“I’m glad you think so,” he says. 

They fall into silence, Thalia veers between looking down at him, and looking out of the window. She gnaws on her lip. Part of her is desperately hoping he’s here because of the reasons she _ thinks _ he is, but she’s also leery about assumptions that will only hurt her tomorrow. She glances at him through the corner of her eyes. Solas’ gaze flickers from her face to where he’s holding her hands, and she’s suddenly acutely aware of how gentle and firm his touch is, and the way his thumb is so lightly stroking her skin. She licks her lips, gathering some courage before she speaks what’s on her mind. “So… you’ve given your apology, Solas… and I accept it… now what?”

“I-” he hesitates. His grip on her hands becomes a wee bit tighter, as though he’s afraid she’s going to leave. “ _ Ar lath ma, _ Thalia,” he says, still on his knees, their joined hands on her knees. From where she’s sitting he looks like a devout faithful praying in the Chantry. “I have never loved anyone the way I love you. You… you are everything, and more, to me. I- I know I have made mistakes… grievous ones… but do you think you have it in your heart to forgive me? To- to let me back into your life again? I- I want nothing more than the chance to love you once more,  _ ma lath _ . I swear I will do everything I can to make you happy-”

She thinks she should probably control herself, but she can’t stop the smile from taking over her face. It makes her cheeks ache with how wide it is. Her heart is singing, but her mind urges her to be cautious. It reminds her of how she has been hurt. “Solas,” she presses a finger to his lips, silencing him. “If-  _ if! _ \- we do this, some things are going to have to change.”

“Anything,” he vows, his eyes so fierce she believes him.

“The other Evanuris might not accept me if we get back, and then what? Will you just dump me again?” she raises her brows and tilts her head to the side, “If people disapprove of me, what do you plan to do about it?”

He laughs at that - a small one, yes, really more an amused huff than anything else, but it’s enough to have her narrowing her eyes at him. “That will never happen,” he says confidently. “If they attempt to do so again, I will rebel. I will leave the company. In fact,” he raises their joined hands to his lips and presses a kiss to her skin, “I have been contemplating it. What would you think if I started my own venture,  _ vhenan _ ? Would you support me then?”

“Oh, please,” she rolls her eyes. “What do you think,  _ felasil _ ?”

Solas chuckles and kisses her hand again. “I promise you, I will not keep anything from you. No more secrets,  _ ma lath _ . I will tell you all that troubles me, and I hope that you will do the same.”

“Deal,” she leans in and kisses his forehead. “My next demand: we face things together. You met my friends, Solas, you were a part of my life, but you never let me be a part of yours. You can’t keep protecting me by hiding me - it makes me feel like you’re ashamed of me... or that I’m not good enough-”

“You are better than I,  _ ma lath _ , and more than I deserve,” he says quietly, his eyes so intense she forgets what she was going to say and can only stare at him. 

After several seconds, she laughs softly. “We really are a pair, aren’t we?” The corners of her lips curl up. “All I want, Solas, is that we’re in this together. For real, this time. No hiding, no secrets, just… if we’re going to do this, then I want the world to know we’re together. I want them to  _ see _ that we’re together. Don’t- don’t do those things that make me feel like a shameful thing.”

His shoulders drop, and his brow hangs heavy with guilt. “I could  _ never  _ be ashamed of you,” he says softly. “How could I be? You are a marvel,  _ vhenan _ , so bright and beautiful.” He reaches out and cups her jaw with his palm, looking at her with so much wonder she feels like she will burst with joy. “I will let the whole world know,” he vows, stroking her cheek. “What do we have to fear from them, so long as we are together?”

“What, indeed,” she murmurs, leaning closer to him, letting herself get lost in the love in his eyes.

Both of them are so preoccupied with each other that neither of them notices the door open slowly. They don’t see a dwarf enter quietly, observing them, a wide grin on his face.

A flash goes off, causing Thalia’s heart to stutter in panic, and she turns to find Varric standing there, an unashamed, self-satisfied grin on his face.

“Varric!” she frowns, rising to her feet. “What in void's name are you doing here?”

He raises his camera. “Just getting a good picture for tomorrow’s headlines,” he states cheerfully.

“How did you know I would be here?” Solas demands, confusion writ on his face.

“Do I really need to answer that, Chuckles?”

Solas shuts his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Felassan,” he exhales resignedly.

“Hey, Sparkles helped too.”

“I’m going to kill Dorian,” Thalia mutters. “You’re not really going to publish that picture, are you?”

“Of course I am! It’ll be great -  _ The Taming of the Dread Wolf _ makes quite the title, doesn’t it?” Varric gestures with a hand. “And there’s that picture of him on his knees in front of you, Sugars, the two of you just sickeningly adorable. Everyone’s going to eat it up, let me tell you.”

Thalia laughs at Solas’ groan. “You know,” she turns to him and teases, “it does sound quite charming, wouldn’t you say?”

“You can’t be serious,” he looks at her beseechingly.

“Well, unless you  _ don’t _ want the world to know we’re back together…”

He groans again, pulling her to him and burying his head in her hair. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“Nope.”

“Very well,” he mutters, giving the dwarf a half-hearted glare. “You can run it.”

“Thought you’d say that, Chuckles. And now that I’ve gotten what I came here for, “he gives an exaggerated bow as a flourish, “I’ll leave you two alone.” 

Thalia waits till the door’s firmly shut before she beams up at Solas. “So,” she murmurs huskily, “where were we-?”

He draws her into a kiss, deep and heated, making her insides feel all thick and syrupy. “I believe you were going to let me apologize more thoroughly,” his eyes are molten quicksilver. “Where is the bedroom?”

“Dorian’s going to be so upset,” she smirks as she guides him down the hallway.

“Good,” he mutters, and then his lips are on hers again.


	16. Epilogue

Thalia pins up the last coil of hair and takes a step back to look at herself critically in the mirror. Her dress falls impeccably on her figure, modestly sober but undeniably feminine. Her makeup is perfect - she checks her teeth for any errant lipstick smudges, smiling at herself when she doesn’t see any. With a deep inhale, she picks up her little clutch from the bed and walks into the living area to find Solas staring at a framed picture, forehead furrowed in annoyance, his lips pursed in a pout.

Grinning - for she knows what he’s looking at - she goes to stand next to him. “Nice picture, isn’t it?”

“Do we really need to have it up still?” he complains. 

She gazes up at it. It’s the photo Varric took a year ago, when he so rudely interrupted their reconciliation. She’s seated on an armchair, and Solas is on his knees in front of her, one hand on her cheek, his face a mixture of pleading and yearning. Instead of Varric’s initial idea, the caption reads  _ Lovebirds Reunited: A Sugar-Sweet Story _ . She has the article clipped and tucked into her bedside drawer, and a fond smile comes to her lips as she recalls what it had said. “We absolutely do,” she slides an arm around Solas’ waist and leans into him, “it makes me happy.”

He gives a little groan, and turns to face her. “Are you sure you don’t mean it as punishment?”

“Maybe just a little,” she laughs into his face. “Can you blame me,  _ vhenan _ ?”

He rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile on his lips. “I suppose it can stay,” he leans down to carefully press a kiss to her cheek, “for now.”

She cradles his jaw gently, her face heating up as he nuzzles into her touch. “ _ Ar lath ma, _ ” she says in a quiet, tender way, even though she often feels like the words are not enough to convey the true depth of her feelings for him.

His face softens, his eyes crinkling up at the corners, lips in the smile that lets his dimples dance. “ _ Vhenan’ara _ ,” he breathes against her lips, and even though she knows it’ll smudge her lipstick, she lets him. He kisses her like he has every single day since that fateful one where he humbled himself at her feet - like she’s his own personal miracle, and as it always does, it warms her from the ends of her hair to the tips of her toes.

“We’re going to be late,” she moans into his mouth even as she grips his shirt tighter.

He sighs, but lets her go, helping her straighten out her dress and using the edge of his thumb to wipe away a smudge from the corner of her lips. “You look wonderful,” his gaze is sincere and appreciative, and she preens under it.

The drive to the bakery is strangely nerve-wracking in a way it has never been before. Then again, Thalia muses, today  _ is _ the opening party for  _ For Goodness Bakes _ \- every time she’s been there before, she had been setting everything up. 

It had been quite the journey from the time she lost  _ Dalish Delights _ , even barring her reunion with Solas. Dealing with Maela had taken months, but she’d emerged wealthier for it, even managing to conjure up a modicum of sympathy for the clearly troubled woman. Next on her list of woes was her father, who had been so intent on using her newfound fame - and relationship with Solas - to further his own agenda. Unsurprisingly - well, perhaps she’d been a  _ little _ surprised at the time - Solas had dealt with Bangael. She’d unashamedly eavesdropped on that conversation, her heart thrilling at the brutally efficient way he’d torn into her father. Six months have passed since then, and not once had Bangael contacted her. 

She rued the loss of the father she’d hoped he’d be, but let it go. Family, she’d realized, did not have to be related by blood. 

Elgar’nan still disapproved of her, but he hadn’t dared to carry out his threat when it was made clear to him that Mythal sided with Solas. The Evanuri had even managed to be coldly civil to her at get-togethers, once it became obvious that Thalia had no interest in the giant corporation.

_ Well, damn _ , she thought as they pulled up to the building,  _ I might actually have to thank Maela for everything that’s happened _ . Solas helped her out of his car, and the two posed for several pictures before he guided her to the front doors.

The café was larger than her old space, Solas having bought the building from her old landlord and renovated it. The rebuilding had taken time, but she was in no rush. She wanted everything to be exactly the way she wanted, the money from her settlement affording her the chance to do exactly that. There were the usual display cases, but also an area that was meant for a barista. A lot of the decor she’d carried over from  _ Dalish Delights _ , but she’d upgraded it, including real flowers and vines creeping around the exposed wooden beams of the high ceiling. 

There were even two apartments above the store, where Minaeve and their newest assistant, Helisma, now lived. Thalia shifted her gaze to the plate-glass window - made from a special kind of glass that would only crack, never break - where, emblazoned in a pretty, delicate font,  _ For Goodness Bakes _ was written.

It is, after all, a new start.

“Ready?” Solas asks her, his smile so wide and so proud and so filled with love it brings tears to her eyes. She’s so happy at this moment, she doesn’t think anything could trump it. 

“Ready,” she smiles back, and taking the giant prop scissors from him, cuts the ribbon amidst cheers from their friends and family. 

The party she’s hosting is open only to those nearest and dearest to the both of them, and she can’t help the contentment coursing through her as she mingles. Dorian’s talking to her mother, the smile on his face softer than it usually is. Gallea says something that makes Dorian laugh, and turns Bull’s cheeks pink. Cassandra is in quiet conversation with Hawke; Varric brings both ladies a glass of champagne and joins in. The Chargers are attacking the buffet, and even Grim looks, well, less grim.

She sighs, the sound filled with joy. This is her life, now. She can barely believe it sometimes, but at this moment, as she looks around, sees all the people she loves, all the people who love her, as Felassan catches her gaze across the room and gives her a wink, the dream-like haze settles to the soft comfort of reality. 

“A copper for your thoughts?” Solas slides his arm around her waist and gives her a peck on the cheek. 

She returns the embrace, resting her head against his arm. “I’m just thinking about how lucky I am.” She looks up at him. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy. Everything is perfect.”

“Well,” he murmurs into her ear, gently prising her glass from her hands. She lets him, giving him a quizzical look as he places both on a nearby table. “I think there’s something missing from this scene.”

“Oh?” she tilts her head, a small furrow between her brows.

He gives her an enigmatic smile, then turns to the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you would be so kind as to lend me your attention?”

She flushes under everyone’s curious gaze, wondering what Solas is up to.

“Two years ago, I met the most intriguing woman, who gave me a free muffin because she thought I was cute,” Thalia’s ears heat up at the memory, “and a year ago, I foolishly, stupidly, nearly threw everything away. Thankfully, she had a merciful heart and gave me a second chance even after all the misery I’d caused her. Her only request was-”

“Let the whole world see we’re together,” she whispers alongside his louder proclamation through suddenly numb lips, her heart flipping over so rapidly in her chest she's genuinely concerned she was going to pass out.

Solas gets down on one knee, as he had a year ago, and pulls out a small velvet box from the pocket of his jacket. His gaze locks with hers, blotting out everyone else in the room, till there’s nothing but the two of them. “Thalia Lavellan,” he speaks as though he’s praying, “will you grant me the honor and privilege of being your husband?”

Her eyes fill with tears, and she dimly registers that her cheeks feel wet. As she looks down at him she can see the tension around his eyes and his lips, as though he’s concerned she might refuse.  _ Foolish man _ , she thinks to herself, letting out a hiccup-y, hitched laugh. “Yes,” she says, nodding her head so rapidly it’s in legitimate danger of falling off her neck. “Yes, a thousand times yes!”

He slides the ring onto her finger, and it settles there like it’s always belonged, and they both stare at the sight of the band pressed snug against her skin, the sparkle of the stone a pale reflection of the love they share; then she kisses him and kisses him and kisses him, and there’s clapping and cheering and a lot of good-natured ribbing but she doesn’t care.

She has everything she could ever want-

And more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're at the end! Thank you for following Thalia and Solas' journey. I hope you've enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it :)


End file.
